By Chance
by thefuryisours
Summary: "Heroes didn't hide from anything. They ran fearlessly charging the front lines, not skulking in dark corners slowly picking off enemies with a bow. Hers was the body of a coward and a criminal." A story following the Thieves Guild quest line.
1. Chapter One: Shadows

**By Chance  
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By Jericho is Falling

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><p><span>Chapter 1: Shadows<span>

It was a cold night in Last Seed as the thief entered into the shadowed tunnels of Ratway. A Nord man of impressive size, the red-haired man was certainly not the type to play the thief, sneaking around in the shadows and gently going through the pockets of unassuming merchants, but over the years, he managed to work this to his favor. Ever since he was young, he'd always been the charismatic type and possessed a gift like no other of being able to charm a target into a state of false security while he robbed them blind. Not that this mattered much these days. As of the past ten years, he had been serving as his guild's "problem-solver" and go-between, a full utilization of his talents.

The dimly lit tunnels of the sewer system were, as always, damp and foul smelling and full of the usual thugs, who scurried away like frightened vermin in his presence. There was something about their fear that made it worth taking the scenic route to the Flagon instead of using the quicker entrance through the cemetery. It had been a long time since anyone had shown him that type of respect. Even the proper citizens of Riften didn't fear him so much as they tolerated him due to his connection to the Black-Briars. Just before the door to The Ragged Flagon, he turned his gaze over toward two men in a corner counting over some ill-gotten gains. Immediately, they stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads sheepishly.

"How we feeling today, lads?"

"Fine, sir," one replied.

"Good, good. Coming in for a drink?"

"No, sir. We're good, sir."

"Pity. If I recall, Vekel said something about getting a fresh shipment of ale coming in. So I'd imagine it has slightly less skeever droppings than usual."

"We're good, sir," the other repeated firmly.

"All right. Suit yourselves."

With a nod of his head, the thief bid them good day and opened the door to the Flagon. With the luck the guild had been having over the past years, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought of packing up his things and heading elsewhere to seek his fortune, but every time the thought crossed his mind, he would step into the Flagon and forget why he would have ever wanted to leave in the first place. Though now only a shadow of its former glory, The Ragged Flagon was still full of the ghosts of his youth. If he closed his eyes, he could see the boys playing cards with their tankards full of the most expensive ale money could buy and pretty young women on each arm. The fletcher would be arguing with the smith over who rightfully owned a particular leather strip, and Nila in her alchemy nook would be brewing potions as Delvin chattered on about his latest job. He never did quite catch on that she wasn't interested. Most nights, Gallus would be sitting at a table in a corner away from the rest, but he still would smile as the boys raised their glasses and cheered over any good news, no matter how trivial. Sometimes Karliah would be sitting with him, though she kept a safe distance from him. They were always just close enough to keep the others guessing.

Those days were long gone, but to those who remembered, they were still just as real. That sense of family never really faded, and with it, The Ragged Flagon began to feel like home. As the old thief made his way down to the bar, he passed by Dirge, standing in usual spot like a faithful watchdog, and he spotted an old friend sitting at a table across from Vex, whose her eternal scowl appeared to be extra contemptuous on that particular day as she glared at the air in front of her.

If there was only one thing that hadn't changed over the years, it was Delvin Mallory. He had gotten noticeably older, the wrinkles on his scarred, rough face grew more and more apparent as the days passed, but the familiar way his cold eyes lit up and that subtle, friendly grin he gave whenever he was the slightest bit excited about something somehow recaptured that youthful face he'd had the day they first met.

"Ah, just the man I was looking for. Have a seat, Brynjolf. I want to talk to you."

Motioning to Vekel, Brynjolf pulled up a chair to the table and sat down between the two. Immediately, Vex gave a small scoff as she stood up and walked away. With a small frown, Brynjolf lowered his hood as the barkeep brought him a drink.

"What's with her?"

"What _isn't_ it with her?" replied Delvin. "So'd you sell any horse piss today?"

Chuckling slightly, Brynjolf put on a half-serious face and with all the mock bravado he could muster in his voice, said, "I told you. It's not horse piss. It's _Daedra Heart Nectar_, and it's going to make us very rich."

"Right, right. Did you sell any horse piss with juniper berries mixed in, then?"

"Laugh all you want. You'll see the genius of it one day."

"Hope I do 'cause all I see right now is your pockets empty, again."

An irritated pout crossing his lips, Brynjolf furrowed his brow. Taking a sip from his glass, he was about to open his mouth to give some sort of smart reply, but his old friend quickly changed the subject before he had the chance.

"So'd you hear about the dragons returning?"

The Nord man nearly choked on his drink. As he pounded his fist against his chest to clear his throat, his loud hacking cough garnered more than a few worried stares from the other occupants of the Flagon. Finally, he managed to regain his poise and stared at Delvin with wide-eyed disbelief.

"Don't be daft."

"No, it's true. Friend of a contact says one attacked Helgen only a few weeks ago."

"And just how many drinks had this '_friend of a contact_' had before he said this?"

"I dunno. I'm just tellin' you what I've been hearing."

Laughing, Brynjolf called out to the Guild fence sitting by the dock as the old man glared at him with the same indignant scowl Brynjolf had previously only seen on stubborn children.

"Hey, Tonilia! Have you heard any of this nonsense about dragons?"

"Oh, it's not nonsense," Vekel casually interjected from behind the bar. "I heard one's been spotted near Whiterun as well."

Standing up, Tonilia headed toward the two men. "Yeah, I got a cousin who lives on a farm in the area. She says the whole hold is in an uproar over how it's the end of time. I can't believe you haven't heard about this already. Maramal's been standing outside The Bee and Barb preaching about how this is punishment for our _degenerate_ behavior ever since the news hit Riften."

Once again, Brynjolf's eyes widened. Then, as quickly as his shock overcame him, it faded, and he broke out into a near hysterical fit of laughter. Tonilia and Delvin exchanged an awkward, confused glance as Vekel just shook his head and continued wiping down the bar. Wiping his eyes, Brynjolf nodded his head and exhaled as he calmed down.

"Oh, I get it. This is why little Vex was so angry. You guys got her too, didn't ya? Thought you could get me as well, and I'll tell you what. It nearly worked. Good one."

Dumbstruck, Delvin stammered a couple times before pursing his lips and looking helplessly over at the Redguard woman. Tonilia just crossed her arms. Her dark lips twisted into a frown as she gave him a pushy tilt of her head. Resentfully, Delvin crossed his arms as well and shook his head in stubborn defiance. Brynjolf watched their silent conversation as his grin faded into a nervous half-smile.

"What?"

"Tell him." Tonilia's tone was that of a nagging housewife. "He needs to know."

"You tell him. Ain't my job to inform him of every little thing that goes down while he's away."

"Oh, don't be such a child!"

"I'm not being a child!"

Brynjolf wasn't smiling anymore. Annoyed with their game, he repeated himself more forcefully. "Tell me what?"

Rolling her eyes, the fence threw her hands up and said, "Fine! I'll tell him, you baby. Look, Bryn. The reason Vex is mad isn't about some elaborate joke we came up with as nice as that would be."

"Told you the dragon thing was true."

"Shut it, Delvin. She's angry because your newest pet got drunk and decided it was a good idea to put his paws on her, and it wasn't the usual Vipir gets too drunk to understand personal boundaries type harassment either. In fact, Vekel was considering making you clean up the blood spots."

"By the – What, what happened?"

"A little good news and bad news," answered Delvin. "Don't worry. No one died, but Vex made sure he's not comin' back, which frankly, I consider the good news. Didn't like him anyway. He was a sloppy thief and sketched out on too many jobs. Plus, he's got caught by the guards twice since he joined. Bad news is we're out another member _again,_ and you're not exactly Vex's favorite person at the moment, seein' as he was your responsibility. Not to mention, Mercer's none too happy either. Says you bring him one more bad apple, and it's your neck on the line."

As he rubbed his temples, Brynjolf inhaled deeply as he thought the best way to defuse the situation at hand. Then, he suddenly cracked a mischievous smile and slowly leaned forward, trying to play it cool. With pursed lips, Tonilia looked him over cautiously.

"You've got that look on your face. What are you up to?"

To anyone outside the Guild and even to some of newer members, his straight-faced shrug as he casually ran his finger over the circumference of his mug would have been the best poker face they had ever seen. Of course, Tonilia and Delvin had known the red-haired thief far too long to fall for it, and he knew that. He wasn't even bothering to hide it from them. Instead, he was goading them, a risky bluff, to pique their curiosity.

"Don't give me that," Delvin grumbled. "You've got something up your sleeve, and whatever it is, it isn't worth trying. Don't make things worse with one of your tricks."

An impish smirk crept on his lips as he hopped to his feet. He gestured widely with his arms. "Come now, Delvin. What could possibly go wrong? Worst comes to worst, one of them feeds me to a dragon."

"Bryn!" the old man barked. "That's not funny."

"It's a little funny," Tonilia commented.

"You're not helping, woman."

The pair began to bicker as Brynjolf took their distraction as an opportunity to slip away. Tossing Vekel a gold piece, he turned and began striding off toward the cistern. Inside, the large room was full of the other thieves. It was always a bit noisy but at the same time, peacefully quiet, with light thudding of Cynric's arrows against a training dummy and the muffled sound of the other's conversation as a nice background noise, enough to give a lively atmosphere without giving someone a headache. Brynjolf quickly scanned the room. Luckily, Mercer was not at his desk and appeared to be elsewhere, most likely meeting with Maven to discuss some important business deal. The inevitable chewing out Mercer would be giving him was not a conversation the Nord was looking forward to having.

It didn't take him long to spot the slender, blonde haired woman leaning against the far wall. He managed to make his way over to her without her spotting him, or rather, he would have if Niruin hadn't shouted "Oh hey, Brynjolf!" at him as he got five feet from her. Luckily, Vex didn't walk away again. Instead, her cold eyes fell on him in a way that made it hard for him to look her directly in the face.

"What do you want?"

Instantly, his boldness crumbled, and his posture shifted from confident man to an apologetic child. With a halfhearted smile, he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to remember what he came over to say. He knew it had been something intelligent and witty that would immediately make her smile and playfully punch him in the shoulder and forget why she was ever angry in the first place, but he failed to remember the words. So he just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Can I just say I'm sorry?"

"You can, but it doesn't mean I forgive you."

Gaining back some of his pride, he took a couple steps toward her. Her entire body tensed up, and she looked as though she could spit in his face or stab him in the stomach at any second. He stopped moving and sighed.

"You know I wouldn't have even given Velgar the time of day had I known he'd pull something like this."

"Did they tell you I had to stab him just to get him off me?"

"Not in so many words, but I got the picture. I'm sorry, Vex. You have every right to be mad at me."

She rolled her eyes. "It's not even about that. Don't pretend I'm some fragile Jarl's daughter who gets all shook up if a man so much as looks at me. If I had a septim for every time I had to fight off a drunkard's advances, I would be having fine wine at the Keep instead of drinking swill in a sewer."

"Wait, then what is it about?"

"Please, Velgar's just another in a long line of losers you've brought back to the guild. Molgrom, Skarr, Britta – may she rest in peace, Kerthir, Niruin–"

"Oh, Niruin's not that bad. Besides, any mistakes he makes are on Delvin."

She locked eyes with him in a way that sent chills down his spine. "You know what I mean. Sapphire and Rune are the only two who have joined in the past three years who aren't either incompetent idiots or reckless braggarts."

"Fine, fine. I've made a bit of poor choices when it comes to new recruits, but look at this place. It's falling apart. Can you really blame me for trying to find some new blood?"

"Yes."

Taken aback by her curt reply, Brynjolf stood in stunned silence. After a second, Vex's lips curled into small smirk, and she punched him in the shoulder, much harder than he'd imagined she would.

"You should really see the look on your face. It's priceless."

Chuckling, he shrugged and took the ease in tension as an opportunity to lean against the wall next to her.

"All right, I walked right into that one." He crossed his arms, and there was a pause of comfortable silence between the two. "Hey, did you hear about the dragons returning?"

"Don't tell me Delvin is still going on about that."

"Believe it or not he is."

"I know he's your best friend, but I swear I am going to cut off his tongue one of these days. If I don't cut off a different body part first."

"Is he still–"

"Yes. Wait. No, don't change the subject. I'm still mad at you." She looked up at him with curious eyes. "How do you always do that?"

"I don't know how true it is, but I've been told I'm quite charming."

"Charming, right. I'd call it arrogant, but whatever suits your ego."

She looked off trying to hide her complacency with a small frown. With a soft smile, he pushed against her with his elbow, and she turned her gaze back toward him.

"I promise from here on out that there will be no more picking up just anyone who says they want to be a thief. It'll be much more thorough, I swear."

"That's all I wanted to hear," Vex replied. She sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "I think I need a bath after all of today's excitement. I think I've earned one."

"I think you've got some blood in your hair."

"Damn. Well, I'm going to go take a nice, long bath and go to bed. When I wake up in the morning, there better not be some new oaf in the Flagon claiming you promised him vast riches. I'm holding you to your word."

"Come now. In all the years you've known me, have I ever broken a promise?"

"Yes, you do it all the time."

"Fair enough."

With a smirk, she stood up straight and began to walk off. As she did, she called back at him. "Hey, do me a favor and keep an eye on Delvin. I really don't want to deal with any more bloodshed tonight."

. . .

The months passed slowly. Winter was upon Skyrim, and not much had changed in Riften. The Civil War still waged on, and it was no secret that Maven was eying for the position of Jarl should the Imperials win. A couple weeks after the Velgar incident, Delvin had news that they'd found the Dragonborn in Whiterun. While the old Breton had been right about the dragons returning – word around the Flagon was that Cynric had an unfortunate firsthand account with one that involved him shooting a couple arrows at it before running back to Riften as fast as his legs could carry him – nothing really came out of the Dragonborn rumors. Those who believed it was ever real in the first place thought he had simply disappeared, and those who didn't were insisting the other side owed them money.

The Thieves Guild was still doing poorly, and Mercer was growing more and more irritable by the day. True to his word, Brynjolf had become much less lenient when it came to potential recruits and hadn't found a single candidate that didn't seem incapable of discerning a lockpick from a fork. He was starting to give up hope that the Guild wouldn't die out soon. Etienne hadn't shown up in a couple weeks, and he was worried this would lead to others following suit. Maybe Delvin was right. Maybe they were cursed, or maybe that fetching elf, Brand-Shei, just didn't know how to keep his damned mouth shut. Brynjolf was certain that the dark elf had tipped off the guards on the Snow-Shod Manor raid and nearly earned Rune a prison sentence. He would deal with that later. There were more important things at hand. Maven Black-Briar had recently become outraged by a business deal gone south. Rumor had it that Aringoth of Goldenglow Estate had suddenly forgotten who he was dealing with, and it was only a matter of time before the Guild was called in to "negotiate."

It was like any other night that Brynjolf walked into The Bee and Barb after a long day of selling Falmer Blood Elixer – or "sewer water with a pinch of tundra cotton" as Delvin insisted on calling it. The regulars were all at their usual tables, and Sapphire was standing a couple feet away from him, resembling a younger version of Vex complete with a piercing scowl. It was around midnight, as the patrons were thinning out, when a stranger walked in. The visitor was a malnourished little thing, and it was hard to tell at first if she was even a she. Her black hair was cut shorter than most women would be comfortable with. Lithe-bodied and small in stature, even for a Breton, she resembled an adolescent boy more than a grown woman. It was the slight curve of her waist under her tight leather armor that gave her gender away.

Her stride had about as much presence as a cold draft lightly wafting through the room, noticeable but nothing that would really catch someone's eye. The other patrons didn't even seem to see her as she walked rather directly toward the bar and slung a rather heavy looking pack she'd been carrying onto the counter. The light thud slightly startled Keerava, who up until then hadn't noticed the stranger at all. The Argonian woman put down the glass she'd been watching and attended immediately to the peculiar customer. Struck with curiosity, Brynjolf listened in on their conversation.

"Sorry, what do you need?"

The girl was so soft-spoken and the tavern was so full of much louder conversations that he didn't catch what she said.

"The room's upstairs," the Argonian woman replied. "How long are you intending on staying?"

"I don't know yet." The stranger went through the coin purse in her near empty pocket. Even from the other side of the inn, Brynjolf could see that her hands were nimble, like they knew their way around a lockpick. "I believe this should cover a week though."

"Here's the key. Don't wreck the place."

Exhaling, the girl picked her bag back up and started walking to the stairs. That's when he first got a good look at her face. Like the rest of her body, it was that same effeminate masculinity. She had a soft, round face with a strong, square jaw. Two red lines were painted along each of her dirt-covered cheeks, a sign of her travels. Her eyes – which looked straight at him as he looked her over – had a perpetually wide-eyed look about them, and they darted away the second they made contact with his.

The next day while he was peddling his counterfeit potions, Brynjolf caught sight of the stranger again in the market place. She was talking to Madesi. There was a necklace in her hand, but for some reason the Argonian wouldn't take it. Upon seeing her, the thief stopped what he was doing and thought of approaching her. In the sunlight, the femininity of her soft face was much more apparent. She looked almost innocent, but he could tell by the way she held herself – the way her shoulders curved inward like she didn't want to be seen – that there wasn't a single honest bone in her body. With those shifty, wide eyes of hers, she looked his way, making brief eye contact with him again, but before Brynjolf could do anything, he was distracted by a slight bump in his shoulder as someone walked past him and the feeling of soft crinkled paper being pushed into his hand.

He looked down to see the note, something recognizably scrawled in Mercer's inelegant script, and looked back up to catch a glimpse of long, dark hair and the sway of Sapphire's hips as she sauntered toward the Temple of Mara. His eyes darted over to the jewelry stand, but the stranger had disappeared within seconds. Frowning, he made his way back to his stand and opened up the note. ("_B: 9 PM. My desk. Get drunk beforehand, and I'll cut out that smart tongue of yours. – M._") Undoubtedly, something had finally come of the Goldenglow situation, and to be honest, Brynjolf was a bit excited for it. It had been awhile since there had been a job that involved more than bothering shopkeepers for payments and stealing semi-valuable trinkets from houses.

"Are you still selling that Falmer Blood whatever?"

Crumpling up the note, he quickly stuck it in his pocket and turned his attention to the potential customer. Haelga, the owner of the bunkhouse, stood leaning on the wood of the stall. Her pretty face beamed with a smile as she pushed her breasts forward and gently ran her fingers over the bottles with all the subtlety of an Orc, decked out in clanking metal armor, charging into a room with his ax drawn and chopping off the Emperor's head.

"Aye." He flashed her a merchant's grin. "Make love like a sabrecat. Not that a pretty thing like you would need any help with" – a perfectly timed pause and a quick once-over of the eyes – "that."

With a fake giggle, she pushed playfully against his arm, her hand lingering a little too long, and he knew she was sold. All he had to do was to keep smiling.

"Oh, well. It never hurts to go the extra mile," she said, feigning innocence, as pulled out her coin purse. "If you ever want to test it out, you know where to find me."

Still grinning, Brynjolf raised his eyebrows, and she walked off with a smile, stopping to look back at him before she disappeared into the crowd. Despite having no intention of following up on her offer, actually making a sale – no matter how shallow the purchase was – without someone warning the customer of the potion's counterfeit nature was such a rarity that it put him in a good mood for the rest of the day. Feeling rather lucky, he closed up shop just before eight and managed to meet Mercer half an hour early. The Guild Master stood over his desk, looking over his business ledger, making marks with his quill every so often. As always, the demeanor of his wrinkled face appeared to be slightly agitated yet calm at the same time.

He made little physical acknowledgement of his Second's presence, simply grumbling, "Well, you're early."

"It was a good day in the market. You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah, it's about Goldenglow, but you already knew that, didn't you?"

"I figured."

"Good, I was just going to send one of the junior members to deal with it. It seemed simple enough. You know, burn a few hives, talk some sense into that smart-mouthed elf – maybe swipe a couple of things from the estate while we're at it – but then I heard that Aringoth's hired himself some watchdogs."

Suddenly intrigued, Brynjolf leaned on the desk. "You're thinking there's more to it than a business decision?"

"It could be nothing. I know if I so much as sneezed in Maven's direction, I'd hire myself half the Imperial army, but something about this makes my nose itch. I think the bastard's hiding something, and I know if he is and we don't find it, Maven's going to have my head. I need you to talk to Vex. Brief her on the situation, and get her in there."

"I don't see why you couldn't just tell her this yourself."

Mercer crossed his arms, a straight face barely masking his aggravation as he spoke. "I'm telling you because even though I want her to do the job, I want you the both of you planning this. I've got things to do, and you're the only one Vex will listen to."

"And she's not allowed to make plans after the Markarth incident."

"Exactly. Now, I'm not paying you to stand around. Get on it."

Standing up straight, Brynjolf chuckled as Mercer turned his attention back to his business ledger.

"Right, right. You pay me to stand around and look pretty."

"I also don't pay you to make half-witted jokes."

The old Breton didn't even bother to look up from his desk as he said this. The red-haired thief just shrugged and made his way to the Flagon to find Vex. He told her about the job, and the pair of them spent the rest of the night planning the infiltration. It was a simple task for two thieves who could steal a jewel off a crown worn by a King, but it was still exciting nonetheless. At least, it was for Brynjolf. Seemingly straight-faced and indifferent, Vex drowned herself in the task at hand. No matter how much time the two spent around each other, even to the point of a sibling-like bond, there was simply no reading Vex when she was working. Every once in awhile he'd crack a joke that was funny, or self-deprecating, enough to get a small smirk out of her, but for the most part she just made notes and asked his opinion in the curtest manner possible.

Sometime later, Brynjolf woke still sitting at the table in a puddle of drool on an old map of the lake outside Riften as Vex made marks on it around his head. He didn't remember falling asleep, and the lack of sunlight in the Ratway made it hard to guess how long he'd been asleep – though the aching of his eyes and his body's immediate need to fall back asleep led him to believe not very long. Bleary-eyed and too tired to move his head, he looked up at Vex

"Mercer says you're not allowed to make plans without me."

She continued her work, undeterred by his comment. "Oh, really?"

After giving her a slight nod of his head, he pushed himself off the table and immediately slumped back to face the ceiling. Yawning loudly, he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and stretched in a way that greatly resembled a bear coming out of hibernation. Vex's eyes flickered over to give him a quick look of impatient displeasure at his antics before returning to her notes.

"I think we should do it tomorrow after midnight," she told him in a no-nonsense tone.

"Why? You busy tonight?"

"While you were sleeping, I had Vipir run some intelligence – and those are two words I never thought I would say in the same sentence. As it turns out, Aringoth's going out of town tomorrow, which might mean more guards–"

"But less supervision."

She pointed her quill at him. "Exactly. He also said there were definitely more than the initial five we thought there'd be."

"Can you handle that alone?"

"Don't insult me. I could handle twice as many with a broken leg."

Leaning forward, his entire face still drowsy from lack of proper sleep, he propped his chin up on his fist and yawned again. She ignored him this time.

"What's it like not having flaws? Does it wear down on you like an overwhelming burden? Is that why you're so annoyed with everyone all the time? Are we all mere mortals that you have been cursed to suffer?"

"Shut up."

"I'm just asking."

"You're an idiot."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"I'll kill you and take your position."

"I love you too, lass."

"I hope you choke on your own tongue."

Smiling triumphantly, he sat up and quickly grabbed her notes. She looked up at him with a hateful scowl.

"What are you doing?"

"Reading what you've got here. Is that okay? Because Mercer isn't going to let you do this if I'm not a part of the process."

"What happened in Markarth wasn't my fault, and you know it. It was bad luck, and it could have happened to anyone!"

Ignoring her protests, he slowly flipped through her work. When it became apparent to her that he wasn't giving it back, she huffed slightly and continued marking up the map, her strokes a little more violent than before. As he read over the papers, he had to admit he was impressed. Vex had really managed to get a lot done while he'd been asleep. There were names and backgrounds of a couple of the mercenaries Aringoth had hired, a vague sketch of the estate's interior and exterior, an escape route planned, a list of tools she'd need. Sometimes he forgot just how thorough Vex was at her job. Most of the other thieves would get the job and improvise, relying on their talents alone, but Vex was a professional. She knew she had the skill, much more skill than any one of them, but she went the extra mile researching every single aspect to ensure things went right.

"Are you done?" she asked him after a couple minutes of stone-cold silence.

"This is perfect."

Before he even noticed her moving, she snatched the papers out of his hand and stashed them away in a bag.

"I'm not as done as I'd like to be," she said, "but this will do for now. I'm still waiting on a couple reports to get back to me."

"I'll go tell Mercer the details." Brynjolf slowly got up from the table. "You pull this off, and I'll tell him you planned this without me. I think this is certainly enough to make him change his mind about your leadership abilities."

The corners of Vex's mouth twitched, and she muttered a half-spiteful, half-grateful "thank you" at him.

. . .

That night, he spotted the stranger in The Bee and Barb again. She was sitting at the bar, running her finger over the top of an empty bottle as her eyes carefully scanned the place. Brynjolf recognized what she was doing immediately. She was sizing every single patron up, picking a target. His head suddenly filled with the promise of new potential, he made his way over to Sapphire, who was standing in her usual spot.

"What do you think of the stranger?"

"Who?"

"The wee, little thing at the bar." He nodded his head in her direction. "She looks a little down on her luck, don't you think?"

"Don't even bother. She's not interested in our line of work."

"Oh?"

"Had a run-in with her earlier. You know that stable hand, Shadr?"

"What about him?"

"Well a few of us – and no, I'm not naming names – came up with an unofficial way to make some extra coin for the Guild, involving a loan and a mysterious disappearance of goods, and she didn't take kindly to our methods. She's probably another Mjoll, who thinks she can make Riften a 'better place.' With any luck, she won't be as damn stubborn as the _Lioness_, and the city will break her down, and she'll be out of our hair in no time."

"Pity."

Sapphire scoffed. "Why?"

"Just look at her. She's built for our line of work – small, agile, quick fingered. Not to mention, she's reading everyone right now, and what did I tell you your first week here?"

"It's all about sizing up the mark," she answered in a bored monotone.

"Exactly. So why is she sizing everyone up if she isn't up to something?"

"She's probably figuring who needs the most help."

The red-haired thief laughed and returned to looking over the girl. Her face was still as dirty as it was the day before, and she didn't look like she had a septim to her name. She was wandering out of necessity rather than a sense of adventure.

"I think I can get her to join."

"You're crazy."

"Watch and learn," Brynjolf muttered with an impossibly cocky smirk.

With a small frown, Sapphire shook her head as he slowly made his way over to the bar and sat down next to the girl. She immediately acknowledged his presence with a sudden, overwhelming frigidness. Her gaze immediately fell to her bottle, and she tried to hide her unease.

"What brings you to Riften, lass?"

"Touch me, and I'll cut you," she told him. Her voice was quiet and calm, but held such a direct force that he immediately backed off. He could almost swear he heard Keerava chuckling from a couple feet away.

"Understood."

He hopped off the stool and quickly walked back over to Sapphire with a shameful blush. The young thief started laughing as Brynjolf put up his cowl and crossed his arms like a scorned child.

"What did she even say to you? You looked like she just told you she was the head of the Dark Brotherhood and was here to take your life."

"Shut up. You were right. She's not interested."

"Pity," she said. "I think I like her now."

Still tickled from the incident, Sapphire headed back to the Cistern only couple minutes later, undoubtedly to tell the others of what had happened. Brynjolf stayed for awhile longer, still watching the girl. He replayed the moment over and over in his head, trying to figure out what went wrong, why he panicked the way he did, and how he could win her over. Sure, she appeared to be very hostile toward him, and he had still yet to see if she actually had skill, but there was something about her that just fit. He tried to muster up the courage to speak to her again, but after a couple trips to the bar met with cold glares, he gave up and left the inn defeated.

He walked down the street toward the Temple of Mara with the frosty winter air whipping against his bare face. As he neared the cemetery, he stopped for a second to catch his composure before having to face the others. That was when he felt it – the faint brush of a hand against his thigh. Spinning around, he grabbed the person behind him by the collar and pushed them against the wall of the temple. Breathing heavily, his vision came back into focus to the frightened face of a boyish, young Breton woman. His mouth dropped open in astonishment, and he released his grip on her causing her to fall to the ground.

"You?"

She didn't reply. Instead, she stared up at him with the eyes of a deer that had suddenly caught sight of a hunter's bow. He just stared back at her unable to say or do anything. Never in his entire life had anyone dared try to pickpocket him. It was an entirely new feeling. Suddenly, she held her hand out and cast a flash of green light at him. A wave of disorientation came over him as she scrambled to her feet and darted off the back way toward Riftweald Manor. It took him a second to register that he should chase after her, and he barely managed to do so before he lost sight of her. When he caught up with her just before the gate out of town, he grabbed her again, this time prepared not to let her go until he got some answers. He pulled her in, and in a frantic attempt to escape, she bit him on the hand.

"Mother of–"

He pulled his hand away for just a second, and she slipped just enough to elbow him in the face. Holding his nose, he fell to the ground, and on blind instinct, he managed to reach out and grab her by the leg with his free hand. With a girlish scream, she tripped and fell flat on her face, giving him time to regain composure as she began to get back on her feet. He wrestled her back to the ground, pinning her down. She continued to struggle, but he had her this time.

"What are you doing, lass?"

"Don't."

"Don't what? Call the guards? Give me one good reason I shouldn't."

She looked up at him with an expression of half-disgust, half-bewilderment, and he realized the compromising nature of their position. With a sigh, he looked down at her.

"Well, this is embarrassing. Look, lass. I'm not going to hurt you. All I want to do is talk."

"I've heard that before."

"I mean it. Just promise you won't run again, and I'll let you go. Can you do that for me?"

With a pensive pout, she seemed to be weighing her options in her head. Finally, she slowly nodded. Once she did, he released his grip on her arms and sat down next to where she was lying. It took her a couple minutes to catch her breath before she pushed herself off the ground and sat cross-legged. She rested her head against the cold stone wall behind her and looked up at the stars. A pensive look crossed her face, and she anxiously bit her bottom lip as her hands balled into fists pulling at the grass beneath her.

"Now, why did you have your hand in my pocket?"

Her reply was simple disdainful glare paired with a tilt of her head as if the answer was too obvious to be stated.

"Fair enough," he said. "Do you not know who I am?"

"You're a merchant," she answered with an eerie calm, considering what just transpired. "You sell fake potions."

"Well, clearly you _don't_ know who I am."

This time her head tilted in confusion. With a friendly grin, he stuck out his hand toward her. She eyed the hand cautiously, like it might be coated in poison or something equally ridiculous, before lightly shaking it.

"What's your name?"

Her eyes darted around as she tried to quickly process a convincing lie.

"Fish."

"That's what you're really going with, lass? Suit yourself."

"I'm from a fishing town," she stated, quite adamantly. "My father was a horrible gambler. Long story short, he lost a bet, and now my name's Fish. Why? Who are you?"

"Glad you asked. I'm Brynjolf. I'm also part of an organization that runs this little backwater town."

This did not appear to impress her as much as he had hoped. In fact, she seemed completely indifferent to the revelation, as if he had just told her something as mundane as working in a bakery. Her lips still pursed, she tilted her head again.

"I heard the Guild was unorganized rabble. No more than common thugs."

"You know, lass, this doesn't really help your case of me not calling the guards on you for picking my pocket."

She contemplated this for a second. "I can outrun guards. There are other cities in Skyrim."

"I'm on good terms with Maven Black-Briar. She can have you found."

With a slight shudder, her lips twisted into a defeated frown. Her grip on the ground tightened, pulling out a tuft of grass. With a frustrated whimper, she jumped to her feet and kicked at the ground. Uneasily, Brynjolf came to his feet and gently grabbed the tiny girl by the shoulders. She jerked away and glared up at him coldly.

"Easy, lass," Brynjolf told her. "I'm not going to turn you in, not if you cooperate."

"And what is it you want, hm? I don't have much so I can't pay you off. I suppose that means I'm in your debt." She spat on the ground. "I know your type. Anything I agree to will have a catch. So what? I'm to be your little serving wench forever, then? No, I won't do it."

Her little tirade had been the most emotion he'd seen out of her since he first saw her walk into the inn. She was livid, a burning torch about to fall on an oil trap, and if he wanted to keep her from running again – or stabbing him – he needed to fix it quickly and carefully.

"Relax, I just want a favor. You do the job, and I'll let you off. You could go to Black Marsh for I care."

Her muscles relaxed a bit, but she still eyed him over, uncertain of his intentions.

"I don't believe you."

"I swear on my life. Provided you do it well and that you're even interested, I'll pay you to do more jobs. You said yourself that you were lacking coin."

She paused. Her eyes fell on her boots, and her body caved with her resolution. "I'm listening."

"You know your way around the marketplace by now, right?"

"I do."

. . .

"No, no, no. No! Absolutely not!"

A bottle hurled through the air, barely missing the Nord's head as he quickly ducked, and shattered on the wall behind him. Tonilia sat frozen next to Delvin, who nearly jumped under the table in fear of the sudden fight that had broken out. Only seconds ago, the Ragged Flagon had been as dead as it had ever been, but one short sentence had set off an explosion of repressed anger, and the rest of them could do nothing but sit and watch the scene play out.

"You're cleaning that up," the bartender commented, undisturbed by the commotion as he swept behind the bar. "I don't care which one of you does it."

"You promised you wouldn't pull this shit anymore!"

Positively fuming with anger, Vex took several steps toward Brynjolf. Her rigid body resembled a wolf ready to pounce at any second. To ease the tension, he put his hands up in an imitation of surrender.

"Easy, Vex. It's different this time."

She shook her head. "You stupid son of a bitch."

Not even pausing for a second, she socked him square in the jaw. The blow knocked the giant man to the floor where he was met flurry of unrestrained punches all over his body until he finally reoriented himself enough to kick her off of him. She fell backwards onto the ground, and he quickly got to his feet.

"Can I at least explain?" he roared at her.

She fell silent, and he brought his hand to his face, rubbing his brow to relieve the pressure. Slowly, Vex got back on her feet and brushed herself off. His outburst had dissuaded any further violence, but she still glared at him with unsurpassable scorn.

"I didn't mean to yell at you," he said after a couple minutes of dead silence.

"Kiss my ass."

"Fine. Be a crazy bitch."

For a second, she looked like she might punch him again, but she stopped herself. Instead she headed past a stunned Dirge out toward the Ratway. Delvin and Brynjolf both watched as she opened the door to the tunnels.

"I'm going to Goldenglow," she called out. "Don't wait up for me."

With a slam of the door, she was gone. Brynjolf sighed and began to clean up shards of broken glass. Nobody spoke again for a bit until Delvin finally broke the silence.

"She'll be back."

"No shit, Delvin," Tonilia replied, lightly smacking the back of his head.

"Ow, watch it! What was that for?"

"I barely even touched you." She smirked and shot Vekel a look before hopping to her feet and walking toward the backroom. "I think I've had enough excitement for one night. I'm going to bed."

Out of the corner of his eye, Brynjolf watched her as she left the room subtly enough to make sure Vekel didn't catch him. Getting bit on the hand and punched in the face in one night left him too weary to deal with any more conflict. Once the bottle was cleaned up, he sat down at the table across from Delvin. Slumping forward, Brynjolf held his head up with his hand and exhaled again. Vekel wiped down the bar one last time before clapping his hands against the counter.

"I'm heading to bed as well. You boys can help yourselves so long as I have something left in the morning."

"Got it," Delvin replied, waving him off. As the bartender left, the old Breton man looked over at his friend with a frown. "Fancy a game of dice?"

Leaning back, Brynjolf shrugged and put his feet up on the table as Delvin stood up and walked over behind the bar.

"Sure, but first, someone should tell Mercer Vex's doing the job a night early."

"Right." The old man nodded and ducked behind the bar. "Oi, Dirge! Go tell Mercer about Vex!"

The hulking bodyguard nodded his head and began to walk toward the cistern. With a wave of his hand, Brynjolf stopped him and motioned for him to come closer.

"Best to leave out the part about the new recruit and the resulting scuffle. Got it, lad?"

"Understood."

With that, Dirge left and Delvin returned to the table, clumsily balancing several bottles in his hands. One by one, he carefully set them on the table before pulling out a pair of dice from his pocket and sitting back down in his chair. Taking his feet off of the table, Brynjolf sat up straight and leaned forward. Delvin held the dice out to him.

"You go first."

Taking the dice, Brynjolf pulled a couple septims from his pocket and tossed them on the table as his bet.

"Seven," he called.

"Pussy," Delvin commented as Brynjolf rolled the dice. "So tell me about the new blood. Kid got a name?"

"Said it was Fish, – Damn! – but I don't believe it."

With a chuckle, Delvin snatched the dice from the table and put down an extra three coins. "Serves you right for betting like a girl. Five."

"Gutsy."

With a smirk, the old man rolled a nine and continued rolling. "He got any talent?"

"_She_. I haven't really tested her out yet, but she's got the making of a –"

"Yes!"

The dice had finally landed on another nine. Delvin threw his fist in the air triumphantly. Chuckling, Brynjolf handed over his gold. Pocketing a couple septims, Delvin looked up at his old friend with a grin.

"And that, boy, is how you play the game. Let's try an eight. What were you saying?"

"I've yet to see her in action, but I got a little job for her planned tomorrow."

"Wait, _her_, did you say? – All right!"

"You're cleaning me out, old man."

"Oh, very funny. Fork over the coin, _kid_. At least I admit my age. I'm not that much older than you, you know."

"Aye, that _is_ true, but I was always prettier than you."

Giving a small shrug, Delvin made a face and cleared off most of the table, leaving only seven septims as a bet.

"So this girl," – He raised his eyebrows. – "Tits?"

Shaking his head, Brynjolf sighed and smiled. "Just call it."

"Answer my question first."

"Almost non-existent. Will you go?"

"That's a pity. Nine." - A twelve - "Shit. Where'd you find her?"

Smirking, Brynjolf placed his bet and took the dice. "Caught her picking my pocket. Six."

"You're kidding. Shit, Bryn, just because a girl accidentally rubs your cock doesn't mean you have to take her home."

"It wasn't like that."

"What? She too pale for you, or is her mouth not smart enough?"

Staying his hand, Brynjolf's mouth twisted into a confused frown and looked up at Delvin. The old man just smirked and cocked a knowing eyebrow which just furthered the Nord's bewilderment.

"What in hell's name are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"No, I really don't, Delvin."

"Please, I know all about your little tryst in the training room last week." He tilted his head and faked a contemplative frown. "I wonder if Vekel does."

For a split second, his entire body suddenly went rigid, but he kept his cool and feigned ignorance. Laughing as genuinely as he could, he shook his head and rolled the dice again.

"I think you've been spending too much time around the junior members. They gossip worse than fishwives."

"Fine, fine. Don't tell me, but I know. I know you all think I'm just a daft old man, but the truth is," – He tapped the side of his head. – "I know just about everything there is to know 'round these parts."

Brynjolf gave a small shrug and grinned. "You keep telling yourself that."

. . .

By the time the two retired for the night, Delvin's pockets a little heavier than earlier, the cistern was completely silent, save from Thrynn's snoring. More than half of the beds were empty from several being out on jobs. Delvin immediately locked away his winnings in a chest and fell asleep on his bed with his boots still on. His slight inebriation warming his cheeks, Brynjolf managed to stumble all the over to his own little bed in the far corner and climbed into it. He tried to close his eyes, but his thoughts kept him awake. Vex should have been back by now. Actually, she should have been back an hour ago. Though it was very likely that she had intentionally refused to come back to the Ratway and was simply staying the night somewhere else, he couldn't shake the feeling something had gone wrong.

Delvin was always going on about how he just knew things in his gut and that people should always trust their instincts, but Delvin's instincts were always leading him to poor decisions, including a brief period about ten years back where a fortune teller had told him that he had the spirit of a king and his "gut" took this to mean he was secretly the last of the Septim bloodline. Vex, on the other hand, took a logical approach to everything. Every now and again, she would fly off the handle, letting her emotions get the better of her, but she was pragmatist to her core. Unlike Delvin, she had no patience for silly superstitions such as gut feelings and curses. Cold and analytical, she took every factor into account and figured out the best way to get a job done. Seeing as – aside from the Markarth incident a couple years back – Vex generally made fewer mistakes than Delvin, Brynjolf found it safe to assume that she was correct to let the mind rule instead of the gut. He told himself she was fine. She had probably already finished the job, found some visitor to the city, and offered to warm his bed, only for the poor sap to wake in the morning to find she had run off with all his belongings.

This is what he told himself, but it didn't put his worried mind to rest. After tossing and turning for nearly an hour, he got out of bed and began to pace around the cistern like a sabre cat caught in a cage. Eventually, he found his way to the training room and began violently hacking at the training dummy until he finally heard the trap door to the cistern open, the light thud of something hitting the floor, and a small, feminine groan. Quickly, he made his way out into the main room of the cistern to see the figure of a thin blonde woman lying on the ground. Holding her side, she quietly swore through gritted teeth. There was something sticking out of her leg. At once, Brynjolf ran to her side.

"You okay, lass?"

"Piss off!" she hissed quietly as not to wake the others. "Does it look like I'm okay?"

"Right, right. What happened?"

"What does it look like happened? They got me, idiot! There were so many more than I was expecting, and one of them somehow spotted m– Shit, shit. Damn this hurts."

"Let me help."

Wincing, Vex did her best to sit up as Brynjolf examined her injuries. The thing sticking out of her thigh was an arrow, and he immediately reached over to pull it out. She stifled a howl of pain and grabbed at his throat.

"Not so fast, shithead. Gently."

Obediently, he slowly eased the arrow out of her leg as she continued swearing worse than a drunken sailor. Once it was out, he tossed it aside, and she let out a sigh of slight relief as she laid her head back down on the stone. Her chest quickly rising and falling from her heavy breathing, he noticed blood on the hand that had been holding her side and got up, quickly grabbing a linen lying on a table nearby. Just above her right hip, there was a gash in her armor, soaked in blood. He knelt back down next to her to better inspect it, but her armor was in the way.

"Don't mind that," she told him. "It's nothing."

"Don't give me that. I need you to take your armor off."

Through her pain, Vex managed to let out a small chuckle. "Always the romantic, Brynjolf."

Impatiently, the red-haired Nord frowned at her, and with a roll of her eyes, she reluctantly began to unfasten her armor. He gently sat her up and helped her pull off her top. Once it was off, she immediately laid back down as he began to clean off the wound to no avail. Blood continued to gush from it, and she let out a small whimper.

"It's fine," she insisted though her pained expression suggested otherwise. Taking the cloth from his hand, she used it to apply pressure on the wound to keep it under control. "Just brew me up a potion, and I'll be as good as new."

"Right. One wee bit of a problem, though. If I knew anything about alchemy, I'd be selling real potions."

With an intense look that reminded him of her namesake, Vex glared at him and growled, "Then find someone who does."

Nodding, he stood up and tried to remember who knew the first thing about potion making. Mercer definitely knew everything there was to know about the subject, but he seemed to have gone missing. Thrynn was the closest, but Brynjolf doubted alchemy was a skill one picks up as a bandit. Sapphire had no interests other than pretty jewels and the talents necessary to take them from people. Vipir, seeing as he had accidentally ingested nightshade on more than one occasion, was a giant flaming no. Niruin might know a thing or two, but he wasn't there. Neither was Rune nor Cynric, though neither of them seemed the type. That left Delvin, who while he lacked the mental capacity to master any higher art other than hiding about and stealing women's underclothes, did know his basic way around the alchemy lab after a year in hiding with the Dark Brotherhood. Not to mention, all those days he spent hanging around the former Guild alchemist had to have taught him a couple more tricks – unless he really had spent the entire time staring at her bosom which was an unfortunately likely possibility.

Hastily making his way to the old man's bed, Brynjolf shook him by the shoulders to wake him. The Breton stirred in his sleep but did not fully wake. Instead, he dreamily mumbled, "I don't know what happened to her knickers. Honest."

"Delvin, wake up!"

The severity of the situation grating on his patience, Brynjolf shook him harder, and the old man arose with a clamor.

"Don't hit me, Grelod. I'll be a good boy, promise!" As he looked around and suddenly became aware of his surroundings, a light tint of red rose in Delvin's cheeks, and he sheepishly mumbled, "Don't tell no one about that."

Brynjolf shook his head. "We don't have time. You know how to make health potions, right?"

Making a smarmy face as he tossed his blanket aside, Delvin got out of bed and mockingly repeated Brynjolf's words. "Do I know how to make a health potion? Get out of my way, boy, and I'll show you how it's done."

"Great, could you do it quickly? I'm kind of in a hurry."

Furrowing his brow, Delvin looked at his old friend with a confused frown before looking over the larger man's shoulder and spotting a wounded, topless Vex lying on the ground. The old man nearly jumped back at the sight.

"Mara, Bryn! What the shit did you do to her?" he yelled a little too loudly.

Vex must have heard him because she immediately shouted back, "No, you are not enlisting his help! Shit, I'll bloody well do this myself if I have to."

Brynjolf spun around. "No, you stay right there!"

Ignoring his command, Vex tried her best to stand up and quickly stumbled to her knees. Quickly, Brynjolf turned to Delvin who was staring at him with his dark eyes completely bewildered.

"Bryn, what is going on?"

"I'll explain–"

"Hey! Can't a man get some damn sleep around here or is that too much to ask for?"

A sharp pain pounded in the Nord's head undoubted due to the absurdity of the current situation. There were days where nothing went right, and then there were days like this that put the former to shame, days that involved being embarrassed by a ninety-pound woman, nearly getting his pocket picked and having his hand bitten by aforementioned ninety-pound woman, being punched repeatedly in the face by a not much larger woman, losing half his coin to a pervert, and having to keep it together when literally nothing was going right. Closing his eyes, Brynjolf took a quick second to breathe and regain his composure. Ready to retake control, he grabbed Delvin by the collar. Half-stunned, half-terrified, the Breton stared up at him with his mouth hanging slightly agape.

"I'll explain later. Right now, you're going to make Vex something to help fix the giant, gaping hole in her side, and you are going to do this as quickly as possible. Understand?"

"Got it, boss."

Brynjolf released him, and he nearly tripped over himself as he scurried off to the alchemy table in the back. Turning on his heel, the red-haired thief walked back over to Vex, who was still stubbornly trying to get on her feet. He picked her up with little difficulty, though she took it about as well as a cat about to be dropped in a lake, her limbs flying about as she tried to fight her sudden displacement.

"Put me down!"

"No."

The curt reply was enough to silence her. She simply gave an aggravated huff, and he felt her rigid body relaxing slightly as he carried her to her bed. Carefully, he laid her down on the bed, and she crossed her arms with a petulant scowl. He left her to find the first aid kit Mercer kept under his desk. When he returned, she refused to look him in the eye, and likewise, he ignored her childish games as he knelt down to treat the wound temporarily while they waited for Delvin to finish brewing the potion. After a couple minutes of silence except for the occasional slight wince whenever he went over a particularly tender spot, she opened her mouth to speak.

"I could've gotten here myself. There was no need to carry me like some–"

"I don't want to hear it, Vex. You're injured, and you need help."

With an indignant pout, she shut her mouth and turned her head to stare back at the ceiling.

"Thanks, I guess."

He looked up at her, his mouth still twisted in an icy frown. "You're welcome."

Finally, Delvin returned with a vial that he swiftly handed over to Vex, taking a small second to look over her nearly bare chest. She simply shot him a glare, and he ran off at once. Brynjolf sat down on the bed next to her as she downed the potion and the wound quickly sealed itself up, leaving nothing more than a pretty little scar. Slowly, she sat up still aching slightly from her injury as her cold eyes watched his tired face sigh and look off into the distance.

"We are getting too old for this shit," he muttered.

"Maybe you are," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "I'm still the best damned thief Skyrim has to offer."

Chuckling, he turned his gaze back toward her. Her words were only half-true. Yes, she was the most talented thief he'd ever come across – the kind that could give the Grey Fox himself a run for his gold, but she _was_ getting too old for all this. They all were. Even Vex, with her unmatchable skill, was still nothing compared to the Vex of ten years ago. The guild members were beginning to reflect the dying Guild, now only husks of their former selves. They still powered on, but it was all in vain. They were on their way out, the last sputtering embers of a bonfire past its prime, ready to disappear into the dark of night.

Of course, he knew if he ever said this to her she would most likely hit him in the gut and tell him to quit whining. In her own twisted, moody way, Vex was the most optimistic of the whole lot of them. Unlike Brynjolf, her faith in the Guild never faltered for a second because she knew as long as she was out breaking into shops, stealing valuables, and planting false evidence, the coin would keep flowing no matter how little it was. He only wished he could have that same cocky, self-assurance that kept her going. It was beautiful, and he loved her for it. There was no doubt in his mind Delvin would always be his closest friend, the old man's questionable morals aside. They had known each other far too long and gone through far too much for Vex to steal that spot, but out of all of them, he respected her the most. He would follow her into Oblivion and back.

His eyes locked with hers. "Are we good?"

"Almost," she said.

Just as his mouth curled into a questioning frown, she took both hands and placed them on the sides of his face, leaning her head in slightly with a small smirk on her lips. For a split-second, he thought she was going to kiss him, which truly would have been the icing on the bizarre sweet roll that was his day, but instead, she forcefully knocked her forehead against his, staggering him slightly and certainly not helping alleviate his already throbbing headache. However, his dizzied state aside, he figured it was better than the alternative. Sure, he found Vex as attractive as any red-blooded Nord man, not to mention her current lack of clothes made her even more appealing, but she was practically family by this point. Things would get awkward and colossal egos would get hurt, and he was kind of glad she headbutted him.

"Now, we're good." She took a pause and laughed slightly. "You _really _should've seen the look on your face."

"You headbutted me."

"You carried me against my will."

"Fair enough."

She smirked at him as he stood up and bid her goodnight. As he walked over to his bed, finally ready to get this night over with, he thought of Vex's words, her unrelenting spirit. Though she was a good ten years his junior, there was still a lot he could learn from her. Maybe they were only shadows of what they once were, but shadows had never been a problem for thieves. Just a couple hours ago, he had found a potential recruit. Things were looking up. He told himself this rough patch was the perfect way to get everyone's guard down, only setting them up for the greatest comeback the world had ever seen. He knew it was an idle fancy, but a positive outlook had never hurt anyone. Once he climbed into bed, a shimmer of hope still in his heart, he closed his tired eyes ready for a new day.

* * *

><p>Author's Notes: Just a couple things. One, you can write off any contradictions to the game as either creative license or lack of research, though my pretentious ass will most likely pretend the latter is the former if called out on it. (self deprecating humor) However, since I'm far too shy to have someone else look over these, please, _please_, point out any inconsistencies in the story itself so I can fix it. Same goes for any grammatical or spelling errors. Two, what I'm trying to do with this story is give a little in-depth look at the Thieves Guild quest line. I tried to keep the characters as true to their in-games selves as possible, but give them a little more depth. (Example: Vex is pretty headstrong and cocky in game, but I didn't want to write her as a one-dimensional bitch, so I gave her Brynjolf as a morality pet to give her a bit more of a slightly vulnerable side.) However, if I ever get too out-of-character, don't be afraid to leave a review telling me about it. I really appreciate any feedback, whether it be appraisal or criticism.


	2. Chapter Two: Cowardice

Chapter Two: Cowardice

"_Look. I'm a bird!"_

It was just before sunrise as the traveler sat cross-legged on the rigid bed. The sky outside was still dark, but at the horizon, the first signs of sunlight were beginning to peek out from their slumber. She stared out the window with a vacant expression, her eyes dark and circled from too many sleepless nights. This night had been no exception. Unable to fall asleep, she replayed the events in her head over and over on a never-ending loop. Her hand was in the merchant's pocket, she had the coin purse in sight, and then he turned, thrust her against the wall. She had acted fast, but the spell didn't work. It had been reliable every time before then. He was a thief, not a wizard. How could he be so resistant to her magic? She ran, and he grabbed her. Hands. Pinned down.

She shuddered. _Don't._

A bargain made: one man's freedom in exchange for hers. It was a fair enough trade – fair for her at least, not so much for the other. She'd die before she spent another night in a cell. Prison wasn't an option. The thief had offered her a place in his organization if she did well enough, and she was unfamiliar with that line of work. It had been a long time since she had settled down anywhere. Maybe it would be nice to grow some roots. Suddenly, the room felt like a tiny cage. Breathe, breathe, no. She couldn't do it. She had to get out of here, out of the room, out of the inn, out of Riften. She had to get somewhere far, far away. The thief had mentioned Black Marsh. It was so far, but the farther the better. She could live in the swamp and make friends with the animals, and this was getting ridiculous.

"This is why you have to sleep," she said aloud. "Can't sleep now though. Things to do today."

Standing up, she walked over to the chest in the corner of the room. Outside, the honey glow of dawn grew brighter and brighter. From the chest, she pulled out a dagger, a plate, and a little pouch of full of seeming random items. Kneeling down, cross-legged again, she placed all three objects in a nice line on the floor in front of her. She stood back up and walked out of the room, down the stairs, and into the tavern room where Talen-Jei was sweeping the floor. She approached him without him noticing. No one ever noticed her. She liked it that way. Lightly, she tapped the Argonian man on the shoulder and he spun around, slightly startled.

"My apologies," he said, catching his breath. "I didn't hear you come down."

"Do you have a basin? I need to wash up."

He pointed her to the basement, and she headed down the stairs with cautious eyes. The cold, underground air nipped at her bare face. She was not yet used to the harsh cold of Skyrim winters and hoped she would never have to be. The warm sands of Hammerfell sounded particularly soothing. The basement was dimly lit by a few lanterns, and she imagined thugs grabbing her while she wasn't looking. As she approached the basin, she looked around a couple times familiarizing herself with every inch of the room before kneeling down in front of it and splashing the cold water on her face a couple times. She grabbed a nearby rag to scrub off any remaining dirt when a searing pain burned in her stomach. The thugs had gotten her. Breathing heavily, she ran her hand over her middle to find it lacked any wounds. Her head suddenly feeling very heavy and light at the same time, she buckled down. She'd been poisoned. They must've gotten her the last time she –

Ate. Sighing, she lifted her body up and blushed at her foolishness. She wasn't poisoned, no one had gotten to her, and she wasn't dying. She couldn't even recall the last time she'd eaten. It had been four, maybe five days ago. Looking around, she spotted a perfect, red apple just lying on a shelf. She reached out and plucked it from its spot, pocketing it for later. The Argonians had already shown her so much kindness. She was certain they wouldn't mind her taking just one apple.

Ignoring her hunger pains, she finished scrubbing up and headed back up the two flights of stairs to her room. She pulled the apple from her pocket and bit into it. The sweet juices dribbled from her mouth with every bite, and she let out a gentle, satisfied whimper at the nourishment. When she was done, she set the core down on an end table and returned to the chest. She sat down cross-legged in front of the items she'd set out earlier and picked up the dagger. As she unsheathed it, she examined her reflection in the blade. The familiar faded scars ran down her cheeks and across her brow – all holding stories of a past life. She was particularly taken with her own eyes, which vacantly stared back at her. A kind soldier had once told her that she didn't look "all there." Then he had paused and laughed at himself like he had said something silly, but it was true. She wasn't all there. Something was missing. Something had been taken, or it had never been there in the first place. She had to find it, but she didn't know what or where it was.

"Stop," she told herself. "You're acting strange. Don't do that."

It briefly occurred to her that talking to herself made her seem even stranger, but she was far too tired to entertain that thought for more than a second. Rummaging through the bag, she found a small piece of charcoal. Carefully, she lined her eyes faintly with it, still using the dagger as a mirror. After she put the charcoal back in the pouch, she used her pinky finger to smudge the lines on her top lids ever so slightly to give her eyes a shadowy look. Laying down the dagger against the wooden panels of the floor, she picked out a small jar of a thick paste, a homemade concoction of red berries and beeswax. She opened it up and with her thumb lined her top lip with the paste. She rubbed her lips together and smacked them to spread the color evenly. Then she put everything away with great care, pulled out a cloth from her chest to clean her hands, and stood back up.

The sun was up now. Though outside the only souls now wandering the streets were the guards on patrol and a couple, world-weary beggars sitting on their mats, soon the city would come alive with the sounds of merchants calling out to passers-by, the metallic clinking of the smith hard at work at his forge, and the hushed whispers of gossiping townsfolk. She felt an odd sense of serenity in the noisy bustle of a city. It was so easy to become invisible without even trying. Getting caught up in a crowd felt as if she were taken in by a wave and pulled into the sea, lost forever. In a crowd, all the people's emotions bounced off each other, an almost magical way of communicating without so much as a word. There was nothing like it – to be so close to these people and yet so far away.

Though it was her greatest pleasure, it was also her greatest weakness. For an anxious, little thing with a fear of cages, the commotion of large amounts of people in one place can easily turn into a nightmare. In a crowd, an accidental bump of the shoulder could send her into a panic, and the people towering above her would begin to feel like stone walls. The air would thin, and all those feelings in one place would overwhelm her until she buckled down, gasping for air. She also knew that if she used the crowds to become invisible then someone else could do it as well. If she so much as overlooked one tiny detail, she could be caught by imaginary adversaries, lost forever in the sea. The city was a fine line between ecstasy and terror that could switch on a moment's notice.

However, she had no time to dream of excitement. She had a job to do. Undressing herself from her leather armor, she absentmindedly ran her hands over her pale, emaciated stomach. This was not the body of a hero. It was not the body of strapping Nord man who could effortlessly wield a great sword and slash it through a dragon's neck as if it was a kitchen knife cutting through butter. She knew she wasn't helpless. She had her talents. Her strengths came from her resilience and dexterity, but that didn't make her a hero. It made it easy for her to hide when trouble came knocking on her door. Heroes didn't hide from anything. They ran fearlessly charging the front lines, not skulking in dark corners slowly picking off enemies with a bow. She closed her eyes. Hers was the body of a coward and a criminal. Skyrim was supposed to be a fresh start, but here she was, not even a year later, about to frame an innocent man to save her own hide, all because she couldn't keep away. She just couldn't do honest work. She just couldn't keep her hand out of that damn snake oil salesman's pocket.

With a frustrated huff, she opened her eyes and stomped over to the dresser, rummaging through it until she found what she was looking for. Gently, she pulled out the dress. A beautiful shade of light blue with shiny, silver lace, it had once belonged to a young girl who wore ribbons in her pretty long hair as she sat smiling on the docks and stared pensively out toward the sea. It was also the dress of a dead woman. Slowly, the Breton girl put on the dress, careful not to tear or otherwise damage the thing. It naturally hung ill-fitting over her tiny figure, so she laced it up extra tight in the back to give it slightly more form.

Walking to the window, she looked out to see the streets outside were becoming a bit more crowded. A few of the merchants stood at their stalls, but there was no sign of the thief. She returned to the bed and sat down on the side of it. She'd give it another hour. He hadn't given her a specific time, only to be there. As she laid her head down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, she thought of a sea-side city miles away where a girl sat on the docks and imagined she was a bird.

. . .

The market couldn't have been busier that morning as Brynjolf set up his market stand. He couldn't tell if this was good or bad for what the day had in store. A skilled thief could manipulate the chaotic bustle to their advantage, using it as cover, but he didn't know if how experienced the girl was. She could just as easily panic and let her nervousness cause her to slip up and ruin the entire job. On the other side of the marketplace, Madesi stood at his stall, eying Brynjolf cautiously. The old Argonian could always tell when the thief was up to something. This suddenly made Brynjolf rethink going ahead with the plan, but it was far too late for to do anything about it. Earlier, he had employed Sapphire to wait for the signal then go running to that rather fidgety, young guard who had taken quite the shining to her and tell him with the most innocent face she could muster that she had seen Brand-Shei stealing from Madesi's strongbox. Initially, she refused on the sole grounds of the plan being, well, demeaning to her, but Brynjolf had managed to talk her into it. Going back now would just further her displeasure with him.

Anxiously he scanned the marketplace looking for the Breton girl, the one doing all the dirty work. It took him a minute to spot her, and it he couldn't tell if it was from her usual complete lack of presence or the fact that she was nearly unrecognizable in a dress. She was standing at Brand-Shei's stall, casually browsing the wares with an absentminded expression. Glancing over at Brynjolf, the Breton stood straight up and wandered over to his stall. She glossed over his potions with a slight frown on her pouty lips.

"You ready, lass?" he asked quietly.

"Yes." Her quiet voice held a regretful tone.

"Good. Wait until I start the distraction and then show me what you're made of."

With a slight nod, she walked off and he took a step out from behind his stall, clapping his hands together with great bravado and drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity.

"Everyone, everyone, gather round! I have something amazing to show you that demands your attention!"

As he leaned on his stall, Brand-Shei narrowed his eyes. "What is it this time, Brynjolf?"

"Trust me. You aren't going to want to miss this."

With a gruff scowl and a furrowed brow, the elf groaned slightly and stood up walking over to watch Brynjolf's demonstration with the others. Once the thief got everyone's interest, he carefully watched over the heads of the spectators for the girl. Carefully scanning the area, making sure all eyes were off of her, she ducked behind Madesi's stall disappearing from his sight completely. Just as she did, a patrolling guard walked by the wall behind her, and Brynjolf could've sworn his heart skipped a beat, though he kept up his act as if nothing were wrong.

"What I have here is a rare opportunity."

"You said that about the Wisp Essence," Madesi interjected, "and we all know that was just nirnroot mixed with water."

The guard continued on his route without so much as the slightest clue to the crime at hand, and the girl casually emerged from behind the stall seemingly, readjusting her dress as if she'd just stopped to lace her shoe. Having to stop himself from exhaling in relief, Brynjolf waved the Argonian's protests off with a laugh.

"A simple misunderstanding."

As he continued on his little spiel, the Breton girl wandered over to the demonstration. She feigned interested in what he was saying, and for a second, he wondered if a thief's life would be a waste of talent. The girl could be a performer if she ever got over her quiet, withdrawn nature. Her eyes stayed on Brynjolf as her hand slid into Brand-Shei's pocket. Fortunately, the elf was too busy being skeptical of what he was watching to notice. Either that or she was just that good. Once she was done, Brynjolf clapped his hands together, and his mouth twisted into a genuinely confident grin.

"Well that's it for today. Don't forget to come back tomorrow."

The unimpressed audience dispersed, returning to whatever it was they had been doing before his interruption. He walked over to the girl, who was now leaning against the well, a forlorn frown on her lips. Though she clearly had the skill, if she was going to continue to be of any use to him, then she was going to have to get over this whole having a conscience business. She didn't seem to even notice his presence as he approached her.

"Why the long face, lass?"

Distracted from her misery, she looked up at him curiously.

"I'm not sad."

"Whatever you say. Hold on a second." He went through his pockets to find the coin purse he'd set aside earlier for her. Since he had never really intended on calling the guards on her, he had figured it was only fair to pay her for the job. Of course, with how little she already trusted him, he wasn't going to tell her that. "Here, this is for you."

Pursing her lips, she eyed the bag suspiciously. "What is that?"

"Don't worry. Your debt's cleared. Just think of it as a little something extra for doing the job so well."

Reluctantly, she took the coin purse, carefully going through it as if she expected a poison coated briar to be stuck in it. Shaking his head, he casually leaned against the stone well next to her.

"The way things have been going around here, it's a relief our plan went off without a hitch.

She didn't look up from the bag. "What do you mean?"

"Bah, my organization has hit a bit of a rough patch. It's nothing you need to be concerned about." He paused as a devious plan clicked together in his head. "_Unless_ – no, never mind."

Taking the bait, her wide eyes darted up at him. "What?"

Frowning, he pretended to consider telling her. Her mouth twitched impatiently, and he finally shrugged. "I was going to say it could be your business – if you think you can handle it."

He found it funny how easily people could be manipulated into doing something simply by him insinuating that they couldn't. An indignant look in her knitted brow, she immediately replied, "I can handle it."

Shrugging his shoulders, he looked past her to see Sapphire talking to that young guard – Hoki or Loki or something like that. The guard curiously tilted his head, looking over at the marketplace. It was time for Brynjolf to end their little conversation. Quickly, he stood up straight and took a step forward. Towering over her, he looked down at the tiny girl as if he doubted her abilities.

"We'll see about that. The group I represent makes its home in the Ratway, in a little tavern called the Ragged Flagon. Get there in one piece, and we'll put that spirit to the test, all right?"

"All right."

As he started to walk back to his stall, something occurred to him, and he quickly turned on his heel back to face the girl.

"By the way, you got a real name, lass?"

She looked up and called back at him. "Jeanne."

"And is that really your name?"

With a straight face, she simply shook her head no. Chuckling, he walked back to his stand and turned to see she was gone. On the bright side, the guard Sapphire had tipped off was making his way toward the marketplace, and Brynjolf smirked ready to watch that damned Dunmer squirm. The guard approached the stall.

"We know you have it Brand-Shei. Turn out your pockets."

The elf squinted his eyes. "What? I don't have anything."

"Don't play games. We know you have it."

Annoyed, Brand-Shei began to go through his pockets as he scowled at the boy, but his irritation quickly turned to shock as he felt something out of place. He pulled out a ring, examining it incredulously.

"This isn't mine."

"That's right," the boy replied. "It isn't yours. Now come along."

As if the ring burned his fingers, the merchant quickly dropped it in horror. A nervous smile on his lips, he took a couple steps back holding his hands up.

"I didn't take that. This is clearly a set up."

The guard drew his sword. Brynjolf couldn't decide what was better, the horrified look on Brand-Shei's smug face or the awkward, young man trying to play a big, scary guard. Suddenly realizing the severity of the situation, the elf sighed in defeat, putting his hands down.

"All right, I'll go with you."

The guard nodded and began to escort his prisoner to the Keep's prison. As they walked by, Brand-Shei shot Brynjolf a dirty look and mouthed the words: "I know it was you." The red-haired Nord just shrugged his shoulders and kept on smiling in satisfaction, even daring to wave a mocking goodbye to his rival which just furthered the Dunmer's quiet rage.

. . .

The first thing she noticed about the Ratway was the overwhelmingly awful smell. It made sense seeing as it was the sewers, but she wasn't expecting it to be so sickening. She held her hand firmly over her mouth and nose, but it didn't do much to quell the foul odor. Taking the gaunt-faced man's – he'd told her a name the night before, Brunwulf? – warning to heart, she had dressed back into her leather armor and had her bow ready at her hip and her dagger carefully tucked away in her boot. There was a good chance that he had been toying with her, that he'd be waiting in the corner ready to jump out and surprise her as a funny, little hazing ceremony into their little guild. On the other hand, there was also a high probability that this was a set-up, and he was lurking in the shadows, ready to strike while her back was turned. Then there was the small possibility that he'd been honest which she deemed unlikely from his deceptive nature and that there were miscreants, unaffiliated with the Guild, wandering the tunnels, looking for easy prey. Whatever the truth was, she was ready for it.

There were voices speaking from a lit room down the hall, and she clung to the wall, slowly making her way down the tunnel until she reached the doorway. She couldn't make out exactly what they were saying and couldn't tell if they were friend or foe. Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself for the worse. Two large men stood in the room counting over some gold and immediately looked up as she stepped out of the shadows. They smiled at the sight of her, but it wasn't a kind smile. No, their hungry grins were far too sinister. Uneasiness crept up in her posture, and she swallowed her fear, trying to maintain a controlled front.

"Do you know wh–"

"Well, well, what we got here?" the larger one interrupted, pushing his partner aside as he stood up. A menacing look in his grey eyes, he began to circle around her like a vulture. Her eyes stayed on him, prepared for a possible attack. "Ya must be lost, stranger. This ain't no place fer a lady. Little thing like yerself in a dark, scary tunnel like this? Sum'un might get hurt."

"I don't want any trouble."

Standing up, the other crossed his arms and snorted. "Didn't sum'un warn ya, girl? The Ratway _is _trouble."

"I'm just looking for the Ragged Flagon."

As the larger one came full circle, he stopped on his heel and exchanged a glance with his associate. They nodded their heads, turning their attention back to the fearful Breton.

"We can get'cha there," the smaller one said, taking a step forward. "Can't we, Hewnen?"

With a smirk, Hewnen made a grab for her, and she quickly dodged his hand, flinging herself to the ground. Stunned for only a second, he drew his sword as she blasted him with a blazing red Fury spell. The man quickly turned around and started toward his friend. A look of terror struck the smaller man's face, and he clumsily drew his weapon, brandishing it awkwardly. The young woman took this distraction as an opportunity to catch her breath and sneak back into the shadows.

"What'cha think yer doing, Hew?"

Without a reply, the giant man swung his sword, and his partner blocked it with his own. As they fought, the girl grabbed her bow and drew it back, waiting for one to come out victorious. Their struggle didn't last long. A couple swings of steel, and finally, the smaller man lost his footing and fell to the ground. Before he could even look up, Hewnen took his blade and plunged in into his partner's chest. Just as he did, the spell wore off, and the behemoth shook his head before looking in horror at what he had done. Frantically, he spun around, his eyes desperately searching for the girl. She held her breath and focused her sights on him waiting for the perfect shot.

"Where'd'ja go, ya little witch?"

Just as he turned to face her corner, she released the string sending an arrow right into his chest. As he staggered back a few steps, he caught sight of her, a confused expression on his brutish face. Without hesitation, she quickly drew another arrow and shot it at his neck. His lifeless corpse dropped down to the ground, and breath returned to her lungs as she closed her eyes for a second. Opening her eyes back up, she quietly walked over to the bodies and plucked her arrows out of the man, going through his pockets for any spare coins or other items of interest. Maybe this didn't make her any better than a common bandit, but she sincerely doubted the gold would be going to any family as inheritance and she needed it just as much as any other lowlife that would later stumble across their corpses. Once she was done with both of them, she continued on her way down the sewers with much more caution than before.

As she made her way through the Ratway, she snuck past a couple more thugs. Spotting a skeever in the tunnels, she drew her bow and silently killed it with an arrow. The nasty little thing made a bit of a yelp as it died, and she quickly ducked to hide, but no one came running into the hall. Finally, she found a door with a sign on it. She squinted at the words. Reading had never been a strong suit of hers because frankly, the life she'd lead up until now had never required much of it, and one of the letters on the sign may have been backwards though she wasn't quite sure. Still, the letters sure looked like they spelled out the words "The Ragged Flagon," and she assumed she was in the correct place. Quietly opening the wooden door so as not to alert any enemies that may be lurking nearby, she slipped into the tavern with not so much as a creak of rusted iron hinges.

Drawing her breath, she stood up straight and scanned the area. Though it was just as cold yet slightly better smelling than the rest of the under-city, the wide open room with its ceiling that seemed to stretch on forever was a refreshing change of pace from the constricting narrow tunnels she had just been trudging through. The stone walls and little pool of water in the middle reminded her of a cave she had once took shelter in for a good several months back in her days in hiding in Cyrodiil. Not that those days were particularly fond memories, but the cave part had been nice. She made her way down the little stone path to a wooden dock-looking area where a rather brutish, hulking man stood guarding the tavern proper. His suspicion of her mirrored her own of him, but he didn't so much as budge as she walked by him, and she assumed this was a good sign.

At a table close by, two Breton men drinking from their mugs raised their heads at her approach. The bald one's hard face was even more scarred than hers, though his were deeper, more noticeable. He looked her over with a strange look as if he were sizing her up, but she didn't think it was the normal, "Can I take them in a fight?" kind of way. The other man, whose features were obscured by a dark cowl kept his head down, ignoring her presence. At the bar, three Nord men, one of whom she recognized as her "business partner" from her, were lightly quarreling about something as a blonde-haired, Imperial woman stood lazily leaning her slender body against the bar, a bored expression on her attractive face. Her chin rose as she caught sight of the Breton girl, and she knocked the red-headed Nord with her elbow and nodded her head toward the girl.

"Your new _protégée_ has decided to grace us with her presence."

She spoke only loud enough so that she knew the Breton could hear her sarcastic and condescending tone. The three men looked over at her. One of them, the bartender, who was a slightly older man with a pleasant face and light brown hair, ducked his head down and distracted himself with his work. The other unfamiliar man, this one dark-haired and bearded, had a friendly face as well. Thick crow lines were etched in the skin near his eyes from smiling too much. He wasn't smiling now though. A perplexed look sweeping over his demeanor, he squinted his eyes at her and pursed his lips in thought. Overcome with a sudden feeling that she was unwelcome here, she hunched her shoulders, trying to appear as small as possible, and retreated a couple steps back.

"I thought you said it was a girl," the bearded Nord said.

The red-haired man elbowed him in the gut and grinned as he took a couple steps toward the Breton woman. Looking her over, he crossed his arms, but on his lips was a faint smile.

"Color me impressed, lass. I didn't think you'd make it."

"I said I could handle it."

She tried to project some kind of confidence in her tone, but it faltered on her tongue. The other woman rolled her eyes and walked off as if she deemed the outsider not worth her time, but the rest silently watched their conversation out of the corners of their eyes, which just made the Breton feel even more uncomfortable.

"Reliable and headstrong? You're turning out to be quite the prize. So, how do you feel about handling a couple deadbeats for us?"

Her mouth twitched, and she tilted her head questioningly. The man picked it up as his cue to explain.

"They owe us a fair bit of coin, and we need someone to show them the error of their ways. You do this, and I can guarantee you a permanent spot in our little club."

While she wouldn't ever describe herself as outright blunt – she was far too withdrawn for that, she often found herself a little too literal-minded to fully understand what people were angling at when they used their fancy riddles and metaphors. Unfortunately, this thief seemed too tight-lipped, carefully choosing his words in the shadiest manner possible, for this to go smoothly.

"So you want to me to steal it back? I can do that."

Shaking his head, he frowned at her. "No, no, lass. While the coin is important and I _do_ want you to get it, the more important matter is showing we are not to be trifled with. I need you to shake them up a bit, but no killing." He winked at her. "Bad for business."

Frowning, she crossed her arms. The citizens of Riften had not been exaggerating when they had said these people were no more than thugs. She looked down at her feet and wondered if she was wasting her time here. It was a silly thought, considering that the alternative was to continue wandering aimlessly. It didn't help that the cold stone walls of the Flagon felt so safe and comforting. No one could ever find her down here, and even if they did, she could easily escape into the shadows. It wasn't a prison or a cage or anything to be feared. It was simply a place to put down roots, if only for now. Still keeping her eyes on the ground, she tilted her chin curiously.

"You protect your own, right?"

"Aye. That's what being in a guild's all about."

"And I can leave whenever I want?"

When he didn't reply immediately, she looked up at him. His mouth was frowning, and though he didn't appear angry, she could tell her question had struck a nerve. After a second of silence, he shrugged his shoulders and cocked back his head, faintly grinning.

"So long as you don't run off with our money, then whatever floats your boat."

Biting her lip, she turned her gaze elsewhere. The sad fact was that there just wasn't a lot of honest work that catered to her abilities, and a purpose would be nice – or rather, a purpose that she chose instead of having thrust upon her would be nice. She did have a remarkable skill when it came to hiding and didn't particularly enjoy killing people. This was an opportunity she couldn't afford not to take. It was a chance to actually make something of herself, a chance at a somewhat normal, albeit unconventional, life. They were offering her everything she needed: food, shelter, freedom, protection. It didn't sit well, but this was the best she was going to get. The muscles of her mouth tightened into a frown.

"I'm not exactly the most intimidating person. Are you sure this is the right job for me?"

"I'm sure you can work it to your advantage. People scare easily when you threaten them in the right way."

Exhaling, she shrugged her shoulders. "Fine. Who are they?"

"Haelga, Bersi Honey-Hand, and Keerava."

Though the first two were foreign to her, she recognized the last name as that of the Argonian woman who ran The Bee and Barb, where she was staying. This certainly wasn't going to win her any favor with the woman putting a roof over her head, not to mention quell her own conscience with exactly what she was signing on to. Still, it was an opportunity she had to take.

"Consider it done."

. . .

Getting the money from Haelga had been easy enough. Before she had confronted the woman, the Breton woman had stopped to speak with a striking young girl with brilliant red hair who had been sullenly sweeping the floors. Fortunately, she held no love for her boss and directed the stranger to a statue of Dibella that Haelga cared greatly about. ("Just take it and threaten to chuck it off the pier," the girl, Svana, had told her. "As far as I care, don't even bother threatening. Just do it.") She'd followed through with the girl's plan – the original plan, of course. It was surprising how quickly Haelga had buckled under the threat, handing over the money as if the Breton had threatened her own life, and Svana was positively beaming with glee as the stranger left the Bunkhouse.

Afterwards, she passed by The Bee and Barb. She considered going in, but her cowardice got the better of her and she immediately headed to The Pawned Prawn. Bersi was much stronger willed than Haelga and spat at her that it was only a matter of time before the whole Guild was ran out of Riften. Luckily, Brynjolf had anticipated this and given her a little piece of advice for dealing with him before she had left the Flagon. After the shopkeeper was done chewing her out, she turned as if to leave and threw her fist at a Dwemer urn that sat on an end table, knocking it to the ground. With little more than a yelp and an angry look, Bersi reluctantly handed over the money due.

With that done, she had to swallow her ethics and confront Keerava. As she walked down the streets of Riften, the sun was beginning to set behind the stone walls of the city, painting the sky a magnificent shade of pink and gold. She stopped just outside the inn and took a quick breath before entering. The tavern was just as lively as it had been the other night before she had allowed herself to be swallowed up into this whole mess. All the same people ate their meals and spoke with hearty smiles to each other. The only difference was Brynjolf's absence, and she tried to hush the voice in her head screaming that she wished that he hadn't been there the night before. She noticed Haelga was standing at the bar speaking in a hushed voice to the Argonian, undoubtedly warning her. Talen-Jei, who had been so kind to her before, lowered his head at her presence with a quiet _hmph_ of disapproval.

As she headed toward the bar, Haelga stood up straight and turned to leave. As she did, she caught sight of the tiny Breton girl, but the face she made looked more like she'd seen a dragon swooping down towards her. As Haelga quickly walked past her, she pondered the woman's fear. It wasn't as if she was a real threat to anyone. She could barely hold her bow up. There was no need for her to be afraid of her, but when she approached the bar and cleared her throat just loud enough to get the innkeeper's attention, the Argonian looked at her with the same apprehension. Frantically, she stooped under the bar to grab a bag full of gold as the Breton woman just tilted her head, wondering what Haelga must have said about her to scare Keerava this badly.

"Look, everything was just a misunderstanding. I didn't mean to tell Brynjolf to go jump off a pier." She pushed the bag into the bewildered Breton's hands. "Take this. Every single coin I owe is in there, I swear. You'll tell him I'm sorry, yes?"

The lizard-woman looked at her with anxious eyes, and the Breton slowly nodded as she attempted to comprehend what had just occurred. As she turned to leave, she heard Keerava sigh with relief. As she passed by Talen-Jei still sweeping the floor, she stopped and turned toward him.

"I'm going to get my things. I don't think I'll be staying here any longer."

With a slight sneer, he replied, "I think that's best."

A slight pout on her red lips, she slowly headed up the stairs to the room she had rented only a few days earlier. Bersi's anger she could handle. That was nothing new. Plenty of people had been angry at her before, but the fear of the two women, that was a completely alien feeling. No one had ever been frightened of her before. The men that had chased her halfway across a country were never afraid of her. That was simply a matter of bringing a criminal to justice, not fear. To be honest, she wasn't sure how she felt about it. It certainly held power, but at what cost? They wouldn't even feel that way if knew her cowardice. A coward, the word rang in her head and left a bad taste in her mouth. That was exactly what she would be were she to continue on this path of intimidating townsfolk. She didn't have the power to back up any of her threats. She was simply too weak, and now she felt even weaker.

Closing the door to the rented room behind her, she fell down to the wooden floor and took a couple of deep breaths. She didn't want to get up and pack her things. Instead, she wanted to hide in there forever like the scared little child she was. It hadn't always been this way. She used to be able to handle things a lot better, but she'd had company then. She always had someone to tell her when she was being unreasonable and calm her down from her ridiculous antics, but that was so long ago. Now, she was alone and only had her thoughts to keep her company. She thought way too much.

Lost in her own head, she felt so disconnected from the room. She was not there. Something was wrong with her. She had forgotten again to eat or sleep or something – something that normal people remembered to do, but she couldn't quite recall what it was she had forgotten. Maybe it was time to cut her hair. Bringing her hand to her head, she tugged at the short black strands. It was far too short. If she cut it any shorter, she imagined she would resemble the bald man in the Ragged Flagon. She smiled to herself at the thought of tiny, little her looking as rough and grizzly as he did. With a small sigh, she got back on her feet. All this childish sulking was not going to get her anywhere, and she had a job to finish. Quickly, she packed her bags and left the inn for good.

. . .

It wasn't that Vex's face was unattractive. It was pretty enough, Delvin supposed, but the thing about her that really got him going about her was the fact that she had the most perfect pair of breasts he ever did see. They weren't even the largest breasts. In fact, Sapphire's were much bigger. They were just so damn round and perky and perfect that no other chest in all of Tamriel could compare. Not to mention, she had a great ass to boot, but he couldn't really see that at the moment as she sat across the table from him, yawning with that wily mouth of hers. It didn't bother him because he could still stare at her perfect breasts, tucked teasingly away behind her armor.

It just wasn't fair that Brynjolf had gotten to get a good look at them last night. He didn't even want Vex. He was too busy giving it to that smart-mouthed Redguard and pretending – oh, no – that never happened, which Delvin knew was complete and utter bullshit, and Vekel would most definitely kill him when he found out. Sure, Delvin wasn't going to tell anyone not intentionally at least, but word always managed to get around in the Flagon. That's probably why Vex never had sex with anyone directly in the Guild. She didn't want the word getting around, the little minx. It was just not fair. Delvin would have given his left nut to be in Brynjolf's shoes last night. Really, he didn't think there was anything that he wouldn't give to take Vex and bend her –

"Delvin!" Cynric's growling voice snapped. "You gonna go or what?"

It was just enough to snap Delvin out of his horny, little haze and focus on the task at hand. Five of them sat around a table playing cards. With his hand propping up his chin, Brynjolf mindlessly pushed an empty bottle around with his finger, his gaunt face completely expressionless and his cards lying face down. Next to him was Vex, who mirrored his boredom, but had a considerably larger coin pile in front of her than the rest did. On the other side of Vex, Niruin sat staring at his cards with a rather confused look. Delvin loved playing cards with the elf. The kid – okay, so he was probably older than Delvin, but he was young in elf years – was just so painfully bad at keeping a straight face that it made it so easy to take money from him. Finally coming full circle, Cynric sat to the left of Delvin. The former jailbreaker's usual calm veneer was slowly being taken over by subtle agitation after losing a considerable amount of gold to Vex in the previous hand.

"I'm thinking, okay?"

The old man looked down at his cards. His hand was actually pretty good, but that didn't matter. What mattered was whether Vex was cheating or not. By this point, Delvin knew how everyone in the Guild played. Brynjolf bluffed a lot but was good enough at reading people to know when to fold if somebody actually had something. Unfortunately, Vipir didn't understand those tactics and would blindly stick to his cards, losing an unreasonable amount of money every time. Cynric barely ever bluffed, which made him dangerous. Rune flat-out never bluffed. Sapphire was a bit of a wild card, but Delvin knew how to read her. Tonilia was by far the worst to play with because she was downright insufferable when she won, and she _always_ won. Thrynn didn't play, which was probably a good thing. The hulking brute would be impossible to read. Then there was Vex. Vex pretty much always cheated. Everyone knew this, and she knew everyone knew it which meant she didn't have to even cheat always anymore. People would just assume she was cheating and fold. It was a frustrating little game, but Delvin was more than willing to play.

He pushed a couple coins toward the center pile.

"I'm in."

Looking at his cards carefully, Cynric sighed and set them down.

"I fold."

The Bosmer folded as well. Delvin figured this was a good thing because the kid clearly had nothing. That just left the three of them. Vex raised the bet by a couple septims. She was most definitely cheating. Brynjolf didn't seem to care because he immediately matched it.

"I'm out," Delvin said, tossing his cards on the table. "So the new girl, bit strange, doncha think?"

"New girl?" Niruin asked. "Did I miss something?"

"Brynjolf's got himself a new pet," Vex answered, throwing in more coin.

Matching her again, Brynjolf rolled his eyes. He laid down his cards and so did Vex. She won of course. Delvin picked up the cards and began to shuffle them skillfully, but Brynjolf stopped him with his hand. The Nord looked over at Vex.

"Give Delvin your cards, Vex."

With a scowl, she pulled two cards from each of her gloves and tossed them at Delvin with a little more than necessary. Delvin picked them up and stuck them into the pile. Yawning, Cynric rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His bright eyes all lit up, Niruin leaned forward with a smile.

"So what's this about a new recruit?"

A small frown on his pursed lips, Cynric shrugged his shoulders. "I'm giving her a week."

"I doubt she'll even come back," Vex muttered.

"Vex."

"What? All I'm saying is she doesn't look like she'll measure up."

"Give Delvin _all_ your cards."

Sighing, she rolled her eyes and leaned down to pull a couple more cards from her boots. As she did, a rare sight entered the Flagon. His muscles clearly tightly wound and a bitter expression on his tired, wrinkled face, Mercer trudged up to the bar and grumbled an order at Vekel. With a smirk, Brynjolf leaned back and turned to face the Guild Master.

"Well, look who's managed to tear himself away from his desk. We're just about to start a new hand. You want in?"

"Another time, Bryn," the old man replied, waving his second-in-command off. "I just need a drink."

Rolling her head back, Vex called out, "You missed Brynjolf's latest prospect. She left about half an hour ago."

"His what?"

"Didn't you hear? He's found himself a new recruit."

Brynjolf shot her a glare, which she promptly ignored. It struck Delvin as funny that Brynjolf was always calling the way Delvin and Tonilia bickered childish when he and Vex's weird little relationship was absolutely no different. The two of them were constantly switching back and forth between being two squabbling brats and being as thick as, well, thieves. Often the change would happen literally within seconds. Unfortunately, Mercer was having none of their games. He turned around and walked over to the table slowly. Delvin stopped shuffling the cards as he approached.

Everyone in the Guild liked to pretend they were big shots, always playing cool and pretending they were a lot bigger than they actually were – except for Rune of course, but that kid was a teddy bear. Still when it came right down to it, nobody really held as much power as Mercer. Though these days he always appeared to be, at the very least, slightly disgruntled, he never lost his cool, and he _never_ shouted, but he had this one face he always put on when he was really angry. Vipir the Fleet once described it as the look a slaughterfish has right before it attacks, and Delvin really couldn't think of a better way to describe it. Mercer's entire face would twist into this enraged expression, but his mouth would stay in this eerily calm half-smile, and it was just about the most terrifying thing in the world. It was worse than hearing someone getting out of bed while in the middle of a raid, worse than hearing a dragon's screech on the outskirts of town, worse than a pregnancy scare, and he had that face on now.

Meekly, all five of them looked up at him as if they were expecting him to chew every single one of them out, but his eyes fell on Vex.

"The only thing I heard about was you mucking up yet another important job."

Immediately, Vex's expression turned to an indignant scowl covering up what Delvin could have sworn was shame. Both Cynric and Niruin looked in opposite directions and slumped in their seats like they were trying to avoid being noticed. Brynjolf bowed his head as Mercer looked down at him.

"I'm assured you remember the discussion we had after your last failed recruit?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you know what I expect. It's your ass on the line."

"Understood, sir."

That seemed to be all he needed to hear because the second Brynjolf said it, his entire body relaxed and his expression turned back to his usual slight irritation.

"Good."

Without so much as another word, he walked back to the bar, placed a couple coins on the counter and grabbed his drink. They all watched as he walked back toward the cistern and waited until they heard the door shut behind him to resume what they'd been doing. Once they heard the light thud of the door, Niruin let out a loud exhale of relief and leaned his head back a bit dramatically.

"Did anyone else think he was going to stab someone?"

His eyes still wide with horror, Cynric nodded his head furiously and brought his drink to his lips, taking a rather large sip. Brynjolf and Vex exchanged an uncomfortable, apologetic glance as Delvin resumed shuffling.

"I've known Mercer as long as I've been in this rathole, and that face still scares the shit out of me."

Loosening up, Vex smirked. "Ten year old girls scare the shit out of you, Delvin."

"One, she was creepy as hell, and two, trust me. She was older than ten."

"Sure, she was."

Delvin made a face. No one ever believed his stories even though they were almost always true. Well at least that story was true. The "little girl" in question was an old acquaintance from the Dark Brotherhood, who was most definitely not ten years old. Just like she wasn't ten years old when he met her all those years ago after he'd got sent off to the Sanctuary after accidentally killing that poor merchant. He hadn't liked her then. She always gave him the creeps, and there was nothing more obnoxious than a child – even one that isn't actually a child at all – talking down to him. Frankly, when he left for Riften a year later, he was he would never have to see the freaky brat's face again. Then, one night about three years back, he and Vex were walking back from a job when he spotted the girl wandering down an alleyway. It gave him a right good scare too, and Vex nearly wet herself with laughter at his reaction. Of course, he imagined old Astrid wouldn't be rather pleased with him if he started running his mouth about their secrets, and he knew better than to trifle with the Dark Brotherhood, especially Astrid. So everyone now thought he was just afraid of little girls.

As the tension faded in the tavern faded, the group began placing in their antes. Once they were done, he dealt out the cards. Picking up his cards, he looked over them to see that he had absolutely nothing. Niruin looked curiously at the others. It was kind of endearing how he was trying to read their faces like a professional. Poor kid really didn't stand a chance.

"So what was her test?" Cynric asked, starting the bet.

Raising his eyebrows, Brynjolf simply hummed questioningly at him. The Breton nodded his head.

"You know, the recruit's test? You always test them."

"Oh, that. I had her get rid of the elf problem." Niruin made a face, and Brynjolf waved his hand around. "She got Brand-Shei out of our hair."

"Good," Cynric muttered. "After what he nearly put Rune through, I can steal a little safer knowing upstanding citizens like him are off the street."

"Can't we all?"

Vex puckered her lips like she had a bad taste in her mouth. "I still don't like it."

Brynjolf and Vex started to bicker again as Delvin pursed his lips and switched out some cards. While past experience proved time and time again that new recruits were almost always a disappointment, he was actually quite content with the idea of having a fresh face around the Flagon. Everyone had fallen into the same old routine. At least new members would shake things up for awhile, put a little life back into this place. The truth was he had simply seen far too many people leaving and not enough people sticking around. If this girl of Brynjolf's could actually hold her own, he didn't see why Vex was so damn worked up about it, but then again, she was always worked up about something, which was another reason he had to bed her. That woman really needed to let her hair down.

"Well I think it's about damn time we got some new blood in here."

"Thank you, Delvin," Brynjolf replied, but his words were directed at Vex.

"That being said – if you were going to find a woman, you could've at least found one who looked like a woman. I mean what am I supposed to do with her?"

Rolling his eyes, Brynjolf slowly shook his head and didn't dignify his comment with a reply. Vex made a face of disgust.

"We don't exist for your entertainment, Delvin."

With a lazy shrug, Delvin snorted. "I'm just saying. A nice ass makes it a lot easier to put up with you. Not that it matters with that one, I guess. She could have your backside and Sapphire's tits, and I still wouldn't be sleepin' with her."

"Because she, like all women, would realize that you're a revolting pig?"

"No," he replied defensively. "Because she's – she's _funny_."

"Funny?" Niruin asked.

"She is a bit strange," said Brynjolf.

A frustrated frown on his lips, Delvin shook his head. Along with never believing him, no one ever understood what he was saying.

"That's not what I meant. I meant she's a–" He snapped his fingers together trying to remember the word. People from High Rock had a specific word for what he was trying to say, but he couldn't quite remember it. "Cynric, what's the word I'm looking for?"

"Don't drag me into this. I don't know what goes on your head."

"No, it's a High Rock word – it's those girls who don't like men–"

"Celibate? I really don't know what you're talking about, old man."

"Okay, that's it." He waved his finger at Brynjolf and Cynric, who were repressing smiles at his irritation. "You two both really need to stop pretending I'm that much older than you 'cause I'm not."

"Sorry, Delvin."

"Yeah, we were just giving you a hard time. Sorry."

"Just stop doing it. We clear?"

With slight smirks, they nodded. Delvin decided to ignore the fact that clearly weren't sorry at all. They were both the most disrespectful little brats he ever did meet. Exhaling, Delvin looked over at Niruin, who frowned in confusion at the attention being drawn on him.

"It's okay if you do it seeing as you're an elf and age all weird."

With child-like satisfaction, the kid smiled and turned his attention back to his cards. Brynjolf leaned back and looked over at his old friend. He had this smug look on his face that Delvin just wanted to smack off.

"So are you done, lad?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Immediately he changed the conversation. "Hey, Niruin, you never did finish telling us how that job in Whiterun went. Something about the Companions?"

"Oh yes, so I'm in the apothecary. I've already got what I came for, and by this point, I'm just taking everything I can fit in my bag when the door suddenly flies open and this giant, lumbering brute comes stumbling in. Granted, this is well past midnight, and I have no idea what in the Nirn is going on. So I immediately duck behind the counter–"

They continued on with the game as Niruin finished chatting away about his story. The elf was pretty lousy at a lot of things. Completely useless with a sword or shield, he wasn't particularly good at picking locks or pockets either. Delvin supposed he was pretty decent at stealth so long as he didn't trip over his own feet. Still, there were two things that he could do like no other: shooting a bow and telling a story. The entire Bard's College had nothing on the kid. He could make a day at the market sound fascinating. Not to mention, since he was pretty awful at most things, he was always managing to get himself into trouble which just made for even better stories. It was probably the entire reason they kept him around as long as they did.

Hearing a quiet shutting of the door, Delvin looked up to see a familiar stranger walking down toward them. He nudged Brynjolf and gestured at the approaching girl. Grinning, the giant Nord stood up and greeted her.

"So you got our gold, lass?"

She really wasn't much to look at. Not only was she completely unremarkable with very few defining features outside of a couple nasty looking scars, but she didn't seem to have any presence, which was a good sign in Delvin's book. Brynjolf had brought back far too many new members who just couldn't seem to wrap their head around the finer arts of stealth. Delvin had gotten hangovers that gave him less of a headache than his training sessions with the dull-witted brutes. It was like the simple act of crouching was too much for their poor, little minds to bear.

"It should be all there."

She handed Brynjolf the bag, and the two talked a bit, but Delvin wasn't paying enough attention to their words. There was something off about her. There was something in those wild, brown eyes of hers reminded Delvin of an Imperial boy he'd met in his days in the Sanctuary. A strange kid – couldn't have been older than seventeen at the time, he had that same look about him that she did – that perpetual stunned stare like he had just wandered into a cave full of Draugr deathlords and was hoping if he didn't make any sudden movements they wouldn't notice he was there. He'd also had that same airy appearance as she did. The kind that made it hard to tell if she was lost in thought or didn't have a single thought in that pretty, little head of hers.

Delvin had met all sorts of lunatics in his life, from cackling, bloodthirsty killers who think a dagger to the face is an appropriate way greet someone to driven, narcissistic wizards who fool themselves into believing they can conquer death, but the biggest wild card of them all were the quiet, paranoid ones. He wasn't going to say something stupid and trite like "they're the ones you really got to watch." If some hulking orc came trudging into the Flagon with severed heads hanging from his belt as he brandished his broadsword about, claiming he'd kill the anyone who so much as touches him, Delvin's attention wasn't going to be on some fidgety, little wood elf reading a book in the corner.

Still, he always found it best to keep an eye on those types and find out what their motives were. More often than not, they were mostly harmless, to others at least. Even the Imperial boy had been pretty docile for an assassin and never killed outside of contracts. Hell, according to Astrid, the man had actually left the Brotherhood about ten years back to marry some elf woman and live out the rest of his days on a nice little farm. Being suspicious of people didn't always immediately mark a person as a complete psychopath. Delvin himself was a bit overcautious at times. Sometimes those types had pasts that gave them good reason to be paranoid, and sometimes they just had a couple screws loose but not enough to ever pose a real threat.

Then sometimes, they convinced themselves that everyone was out to get them and slit people's throats in their sleep.

* * *

><p><em>Author's notes:<em> Ugh, I am not happy with this chapter at all. I realized it was running a bit too long - even by the first chapter's standards. So I decided to cut it off here and make the Goldenglow job part of the next chapter, and now it just feels all incomplete. I need to get to the part where Fish/Jeanne/the new recruit gets a proper name because writing from her perspective is getting rather hard, with all this having to leave things all ambiguous.


	3. Chapter Three: Confidence

Chapter Three: Confidence

"Don't be scared, lass. He isn't going to bite you."

"I'm not scared."

"Could have fooled me."

Brynjolf looked back to the tiny woman following behind him with her eyes darting in every direction as they walked through the backroom of the Flagon toward the cistern. As they entered the main room, he heard her footsteps stop and turned his head to what was the matter. Gently biting her bottom lip, she stood with a strange, uncertain expression on her face.

"Something the matter?"

"You all live down here – together?"

"What? You never had to share a room with your siblings growing up?"

"No, I had very wealthy parents. In fact, I'm related to the emperor on my mother's side, you see. Even all our servants had their own rooms. Our cat did too."

Had that been said by anyone other than her, Brynjolf would have chuckled and told them to stop playing smart, but he was thrown off by her completely deadpan voice as she warily glanced around the room. Of course, he knew it wasn't true, but she sounded so convincing without putting any effort into it, like lying was second nature to her. After a couple seconds of silence on his part, her eyes fell back on him, and she pursed her lips bewildered.

"That was a lie."

"I know," he replied. "It's just–"

"What?"

"Nothing. Are our living conditions going to be a problem for you, princess?"

"No. It actually sounds rather nice." Her tone was surprisingly sincere.

"Well, good. Let's get going then. You need to meet Mercer."

Turning around, he spotted Mercer at his desk and headed toward the guild master with the new recruit obediently following him. Noticing their approach, Mercer looked up and frowned.

"Is this the one?"

"Aye. This is–"

He was interrupted by her near automatic reply. "Reinette."

"That's not her name."

"You don't know that."

"Look, lass. This isn't someone you want to pl–"

With an irritated grimace, Mercer simply held his hand up, and they both quit speaking. Taking a deep inhale, he stood up and crossed his arms as he slowly circled around the girl examining her like she was a horse that he was considering purchasing. As he did, she followed him with her eyes, and her frame went rigid. Her hands kept anxiously fidgeting at her sides. Once he came full circle, the corners of his mouth twitched upward for only a second before he shrugged his shoulders seemingly unimpressed and turned his attention over to Brynjolf.

"She better not be another waste of our resources."

"She won't be, I swear."

"We'll see." He faced the girl. "Let's make something clear. Play by the rules, and you'll walk away rich. Break them, and you lose your share. No exceptions, no discussion, no bitching. You'll do as we say when we say. Do I make myself clear?"

He had nearly barked the question at her, and she nodded fervently. Uncrossing his arms, Mercer's tension relaxed a bit. Though the girl might not have realized it, the meeting was going rather well. Brynjolf had been around long enough to be able to tell Mercer's real irritation from his standard gruffness, and despite the fact he'd never admit it, Mercer was a lot more satisfied with her than he had been with a recruit since Niruin had essentially paid his way into the guild. Of course, the Breton girl would never surpass Vex in making a great first impression with Mercer. After Vex had joined, he had pulled Brynjolf aside and practically gushed about how she reminded him of how he had been on his first day and that the girl would go far. Nonetheless, Mercer was pleased, and that was a good sign for both the recruit and Brynjolf.

"Good. Then I say it's time we put your expertise to the test."

Frowning in confusion, Brynjolf crossed his arms. As far as he knew, they didn't have any big jobs lined up, and Mercer had to mean something big otherwise he would have just welcomed her into the guild and directed her to Delvin or –

"Wait a moment. You're not suggesting we send her to Goldenglow. Even our little Vex couldn't get in."

"You said she was good. Let her prove it."

Though unconvinced, Brynjolf held his tongue. He knew the recruit was good, but if Vex couldn't do a job, then nobody stood a chance, especially someone who had just joined today. Still, the girl listened carefully as Mercer began vaguely explaining what the Goldenglow job was and then told her to ask Brynjolf for more details. Without so much as another word, he started to head back for his desk.

"Mercer, aren't you forgetting something?" Brynjolf asked.

The guild master stopped and frowned, clearly trying to recall what he could have forgotten. His eyes lit up slightly in remembrance, and he grumbled a bit before turning back around to face the girl.

"Right. Since Brynjolf assures me you'll be more of an asset than a hindrance, you're in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild."

With that, Mercer walked back off to his desk, and Brynjolf smiled over at the girl.

"Well, that went better than expected. Come, I'll give you the grand tour." Leading her toward the training room, he began pointing out things of interest. "That was Mercer. He's in charge of the operation. If you ever need to find him, he'll probably be scowling at his desk. Over there's the alchemy lab. You any good at potions?"

"Not particularly."

"That's fine. No one else here is either. If you ever need one, your best bet is Delvin. He's the bald man you saw in the Flagon. I'd keep an eye on him if I were you. He means well, but he's a sneaky, little bastard and doesn't always understand what is and isn't appropriate behavior."

As they entered the training room, Brynjolf stopped and let her get acquainted with it. Inside, Vipir the Fleet was shooting arrows at a hay target. Stopping for a minute, he curiously looked over at the girl and returned to his archery.

"So Mercer let her in?" he asked as he pulled out another arrow

"Aye, he did. Lass, this is Vipir the Fleet. You ever need help with picking pockets Vipir will be more than happy to teach you. Isn't that right, lad?"

"I suppose," he grumbled.

"Don't mind him. He's a tad sore with me right now."

"You'll be sore with him too when he and Vex keep you up all night."

Putting down his bow, Vipir glared over at Brynjolf and crossed his arms. The red-haired thief narrowed his eyes at him. It hadn't taken long for that to become a rumor. If he knew how things worked in these parts and he did, the entire guild would be gossiping about Vex and him spending the night together by morning unless he did some serious damage control. Otherwise Vex would get it in her head that he had started the rumor. If that happened, then she'd most likely punch him, and to be completely honest, his jaw was still a bit sore from the last time she had. He looked down at the recruit. Clearly uncomfortable, judging by the slight blush on her cheeks, she had turned her gaze away from the others and was eying a chest in the corner as if it were the most interesting sight in the world.

"It's not what it sounds like," he said.

Shaking her head, she waved her hand as if she were batting away a fly. "I don't want to know."

With an insincere laugh, Vipir put away his bow and began walking toward the hall. "I don't know, Bryn. Judging by her lack of clothing, I'd say it was exactly like it sounds."

"Don't you have a job in Whiterun to do?"

Stopping right in front of the girl, he reached down and held her hand like a perfect gentleman. The recruit's blush reddened even further, and she stared at their hands with her mouth clenched shut. Vipir shot Brynjolf a smug smirk before addressing the recruit with a smooth tone.

"If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask. It'd be my honor to teach you everything I know."

Blinking a couple times, she slowly nodded her head as if in a trance. Brynjolf crossed his arms and glowered at the other Nord. With a chuckle, Vipir let go of the girl's hand and headed out of the training room without so much as a wave farewell. As she regained her composure, the recruit scratched the back of her neck and looked up at the ceiling.

"Well, he was – pleasant."

"He's an idiot."

"Are you always at each other's throats?"

"Not always."

Pausing, Brynjolf smirked and leaned against the wall. That wasn't true at all. If it wasn't Delvin and Tonilia or Vex and him fighting, then someone would be squabbling with someone over some asinine problem. Even if it weren't for the financial troubles, Brynjolf still wouldn't blame Mercer for being so cross all the time. The guild master had to sort out petty fights and childish bickering so much that Brynjolf had taken it upon himself to start playing the mother of this dysfunctional, little family, always trying to smooth things over before Father Mercer lost his temper.

Brynjolf looked down at the tiny Breton, whose eyes, despite the hollowed out circles beneath them from too many sleepless nights, stared wildly up back at him. Her lips were shut tight as always, as if she feared opening them in the slightest would lead to her spilling out all her secrets. There was no denying she was a strange one, the kind of person to be ostracized from normal society, but between Vipir's rowdiness, Sapphire's iciness, Cynric's snide sarcasm, and Vex's headstrong hostility, none of the guild could be classified as normal. Brynjolf knew that in due time, the recruit would come to fit in just fine with his little ragtag team of ne'er-do-wells.

"Don't worry, lass. It's like Mercer said. You play by the rules and don't do anything stupid, and you'll do well down here. We're a family. We don't always like each other, but we have each other's backs."

The muscles of her mouth relaxed a bit, and for a second, he could have sworn it was a smile.

. . .

She found herself caught in that state between asleep and awake where everything seemed blurry and liquid. If she just rolled over and shut her eyes again, she could slip right back into her slumber without issue. It took her a bit to remember where she was. With how much she wandered combined with how little she slept these days, this was a fairly common occurrence. The walls were stony and grey, and there were voices in the distance. The faint outline of someone walking by caused the tiny Breton to jolt awake. Her frantic movement must have taken the figure by surprise because it jumped a bit and stopped in front of her bed. A rather perplexed Nord man came into focus.

"Who are you?"

Not answering his question immediately, she looked him over and looked around. The dark, circular room was full of people she only partially recognized. That was when she recognized where she was. After she had returned with the money, Brynjolf had welcomed her into the guild and taken her to a backroom to meet a rather tired looking man named Mercer, who was actually in charge of the organization. This giant cistern was their official headquarters and living space. After she'd gotten done talking with the guild master about something, Brynjolf had given her a short tour of the place and shown her where her bed was. After that, she pretty much immediately went to sleep.

She looked back up at the unfamiliar man. "I'm new."

"So Brynjolf's found another stray?" He chuckled and stuck his hand out to her. "It's okay. I was one of his strays, too. Name's Rune."

Suspiciously eying his hand, she quickly scanned the room. There were plenty of witnesses, and his smile seemed genuine enough. Hopefully, that meant he wouldn't to try anything. Reaching out, she half-heartedly shook it.

"Therese."

"Pretty." He paused. "You seem a little startled. Is something wrong?"

"No, no. I'm pretty much always like this," she answered, absentmindedly.

She didn't mean to be so distracted, but she had a terrible feeling she was forgetting something important. Brynjolf would remember probably what it was. Her eyes searched the room for him, but he didn't seem to be in there. Mercer was standing over a desk on the far side of the room, and she remembered it had something to do with the guild master. He'd given her an important task. Then everything came rushing back, and she jerked her attention back to the man.

"What time is it?"

"Just before sunset. Why?"

Last night, Mercer had given her another job to do. It had something to do with a place called Goldenglow. Someone had cut someone out of a deal, and it was her job to set them straight. Brynjolf had said he'd explain the details in the morning, but she had somehow managed to sleep through the day. Hopefully, he wouldn't be too angry about it, and this mistake wouldn't result in a quick boot from the guild. Just from the one conversation, she didn't get the impression Mercer was all too thrilled that she was there. Quickly getting out of bed, she found her boots on the floor next to the bed. As she grabbed them, Rune looked at her curiously.

"I have to go," she said, hopping around as she put on her shoes. "It was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too."

Weaving past him, she headed for the Flagon. Hopefully, Brynjolf would be there and she wouldn't have to go all the way up to the marketplace to find him. She wasn't even sure they were allowed to be seen speaking to each other in public or if they weren't all that secretive. As she entered, she spotted the Nord eating dinner across from the blonde woman who seemed to share Mercer's distaste for her. Upon seeing her, Brynjolf smirked and motioned for her to sit down. Obediently taking the empty chair, she bit her lip and emotionally readied herself to be reprimanded for her mistake. He slowly finished chewing his food and swallowed.

"Look who's finally awake. I thought I was going to have to go in there and drag you to Goldenglow."

Surprisingly, his tone was that of friendly teasing. She hadn't been expecting him to be so relaxed about all this. To be honest, she still didn't trust the man as far as she could throw him. He had been friendly enough when he wasn't extorting her for favors or playing the big, bad thief. Still, all her experience had taught her never to trust a confidence man. No matter how much they genuinely liked a person, they would still sell them down the river before they would lose an opportunity to make some coin. Con artists simply had no sense of honor, and as agreeable as he seemed, this Brynjolf was nothing if not a con artist. Even his kinder words always sounded so smooth and calculated. There had been moments when she thought his guard might have been down, but she couldn't trust that even that wasn't a front, a clever ploy to gain her trust by looking vulnerable. Still, aside from their first meeting, he had shown no reason for her to be outwardly hostile to him, but she was a fool if she even thought about trusting him.

With his hand, he motioned over to the other woman. "This is Vex. Best damn infiltrator I've ever met."

Vex didn't so much as bother looking over at her. Brynjolf was either oblivious to the hostility or was ignoring it as he continued on to explain the job. During which, he made a rather terrible pun that had caused Vex to roll her eyes and threaten him bodily harm if he ever made a joke like that again. That aside, the estate was a bee farm, and she was to burn down three of the hives and clear out the safe inside. It sounded a simple enough job so long as she didn't alert the mercenaries that were patrolling the estate. Once Brynjolf finished his meal, he stood up and gestured with his hands in a dramatic manner.

"Well, I got important matters to attend to. See Tonilia about your armor I mentioned last night. You have any more questions, Vex here can fill you in about what to expect there." Brynjolf turned his attention to the blonde woman. "Play nice."

Smiling, he walked off back toward the cistern, leaving the two women alone together and the Breton suddenly very anxious. After a moment of silence, Vex puckered her lips to the side and pushed her plate away from her before glowering in the girl's direction.

"I'm going to make two things clear before I tell you anything about the job. One, Brynjolf wasn't exaggerating. I'm the best infiltrator this shit excuse for a guild's got. So if you got any smart ideas about replacing me in that airy, little head of yours, you can just forget about it. Two, you do a job for me, and you'll either do exactly as I say or you bet your bony ass, I'll make you wish you never wandered down into this rathole. Got it?"

The girl nodded. Leaning back in her chair suddenly relaxed, Vex flashed her a cocky smirk.

"Good, then we'll have no problems. So I bet Brynjolf's glossed over this 'little problem' we've been having, hasn't he?"

"He mentioned a bit of a rough patch."

"Hah, try nearly ten years of barely scraping by, and even before that, it wasn't doing well. I won't sugar-coat it for you. We're in bad. Old Delvin's convinced we've been cursed, but I think he's crazy. Of course, Bryn wants to pretend it's all a matter of time before our luck turns around, but you know what I think? I think we need to get off our asses and start getting things done, make them fear us again, luck be damned. Plus, making a little coin on the side doesn't hurt, does it?"

With a small sigh, the woman leaned forward and examined the girl carefully. That half-genuine smirk on her lips coupled with the coldness of her eyes made the recruit have to refrain from squirming in her seat.

"Brynjolf wasn't exaggerating when he said you were a strange kid, was he?"

"No, whatever he said was probably pretty accurate."

She made this noise that sounded half like a chuckle, half like a scoff. "Whatever. You wanted to know about Goldenglow. Be careful of the guards. They're a particularly nasty sort. When I tried getting in, the bastards got me pretty good. Came stumbling back to the guild nearly bleeding out. You'd think with three Bretons and an elf, someone in this sewer would know a decent healing spell, but no, they proved to be useless s'wits yet again – I'm getting off track. Anyway, the island's pretty hard to get on to, but there's an unguarded sewer tunnel that dumps into the lake on the northwest side. It leads right into the estate. It should still be unguarded. I seriously doubt the fetchers realized it was how I got in."

With that, she stood up to leave, but her eyes stayed on the girl.

"That's all you really need to know. If you come back alive, I've got some jobs for you if you need to make a little extra coin, but other than that, I got nothing else to tell you." She paused and looked down at her mostly untouched plate. "And you can have the rest of that. Get some meat on your bones."

As Vex walked off to talk to the bald man – Delvin, Brynjolf had said his name was – who was sitting a few tables down, the Breton looked over Vex's food and found an unbitten loaf of bread. She stuck it in her pocket planning to eat it on the trip over to Goldenglow. Leaving the table, she headed over to a Redguard woman she assumed was Tonilia, seeing as the only other two women she had seen in the place were named Sapphire and Vex. The woman rather indifferently explained that she served as the guild's fence and handed the recruit the armor she had been promised. Once she had it, she headed back to the cistern to change into her new armor and pack her things for the job. She figured she didn't need much. Her bow, her dagger, and some arrows and lockpicks sounded like they'd be enough.

By the time she climbed up the ladder and exited through a little trap door into the cemetery behind the Temple of Mara, the winter winds were blowing through the city, colder than they had been the other night. There was also a soft layer of snow covering the ground, only about an inch thick. She remembered the first time she'd seen snow. On a hike up the Jerall Mountains in late autumn, she had noticed the icy sludge on the ground, and it had taken her a minute to identify it as snow. Her companion had patiently waited as she excitedly hopped around in the frosty slush before reminding her that they had somewhere to be. However, since she'd been in Skyrim, she considered it a blessing if she could get through a day without having to deal with snow, and she was suddenly grateful that she was in the one city in the whole country that wasn't in a constant state of blizzards nearly twelve months a year.

As she lightly stepped through the grounds of the cemetery, she couldn't help but realize how bad this was for her mission. It was still snowing hard enough to quickly cover up any tracks she might leave, but this also meant a stray twig could be hidden under the icy blankets and be accidentally stepped on at the most inopportune time such as when she was no more than three feet away from a rather angry mercenary. Fortunately, the city was already rather dark. The night sky was mostly obscured mostly by clouds blocking out most of the stars and the moons. Beneath the clouds, the moons were nicely crescent-shaped, giving off little light to begin with. Slinging her pack over her shoulder, she took this as a good sign and felt her nerves easing up as she slipped down the back alleys of Riften toward the doors to the docks. The darkness meant less chance of being spotted by mercenaries, at least until she got into the estate itself. Picking a torch off the city walls, she slipped out on to the docks and headed out toward the estate before her confidence faded.

. . .

"It's cold as shit out here."

Vex rolled her eyes. "And yet you're still as elegant as ever, Delvin."

It was freezing outside Riften, and the frigid winds were blowing tiny snowflakes on her face. Every so often she would wipe them away only to smudge her makeup and leave little black smears on her hands. Delvin was sitting on the side of the dock with his legs dangling off the side as he absentmindedly tossed pebbles he found on the ground into the lake. Leaning on the stone walls of the city, Vex was barely repressing the urge to kick him into the cold waters below. It wasn't like he'd drown or anything. She knew for a fact he could swim. Still he would get his knickers in a knot, and Vex didn't want to risk any more trouble with the guild. So she stood there in the freezing winds with her jaw clenched and her eyes watching the estate in the distance.

It had been less than half an hour since the recruit had left, and Brynjolf had tasked the pair to play look-out for signs of smoke. Vex just knew it was because she'd botched the first attempt at the Goldenglow break-in. This whole thing was a slap in the face as far as she was concerned. She messed up once, and now Mercer was mocking her by giving the job to some fresh-faced child who probably couldn't tell the hilt of a dagger from the pointy end. To add insult to injury, Brynjolf had assigned Delvin to wait with her under the false assertion that he knew if he sent one of them they would abandon post to go do something else, but if he sent both of them they'd be too stubborn to let the other wander off. It had been a lie. Brynjolf was punishing her for something. She was definitely going to punch him again when she got back to the Flagon.

Delvin looked up at her. "You think she's dead?"

"Probably."

"Pity. I was hoping to see more of her."

"You want to see more of every woman you meet."

"I didn't mean it like that. What's up your ass that's got you so crabby?"

"Shut up."

Throwing his hands up in the air, Delvin made a face at her and went back to throwing rocks into the lake. None of this was fair. If she'd just stuck to the plan and not let her emotions get the better of her, the whole job would have been done last night, and she wouldn't have to be lowered in the eyes of her peers. Vex knew she was better than the recruit, but the idea of the others congratulating that girl on something that should have been her glory had her stomach in knots and infuriated her more than she had felt in a long time. She didn't really blame the girl, and she certainly wasn't jealous of her. There was no reason to be. The little Breton would be gone in no time whether by force or choice. No matter how much Brynjolf deluded himself, no one ever stuck around these days. No, the recruit was just a pawn in Mercer's game to get back at her for mucking up a job. If she succeeded in this and then failed later, it would just look even worse on Vex's part.

This was exactly what the others meant when they called her a pigheaded bitch. Despite what her actions and words would lead one to believe, Vex wasn't so self-absorbed that she didn't know what they were talking about. She was fully aware that she had flaws. It just didn't really matter to her so long as those flaws didn't get in the way of her success. Sometimes her stubbornness caused her to make mistakes. It occasionally blinded her from taking other's advice to heart when they knew more about the subject than she did, but more often than not, her tenacity separated her from the lazy bums back in the Ratway who were perfectly willing to whine about how poorly the guild was doing and still not do a damn thing to change that. She might be inflexible and cold and rude, but what the others liked to forget was she was one of the few actually trying to fix things and despite what happened the other night, she rarely ever made mistakes. That was why it was so unfair that she had to be stuck out in the snow watching for some child to do a job that was rightfully hers.

Then far away she saw a bright light coming from behind the estate. Dark smoke clouded in the night air and was quickly whisked away with the wind. Vex nudged Delvin with her boot, and the old man looked up at her with his brow furrowed in confusion. He then turned his attention toward the lake. Grinning, he slowly got to his feet and crossed his arms.

"Well, looks like she ain't dead after all. Should we go tell Bryn the good news?"

"Not yet."

"Shit, in case you haven't noticed, Vex, it's colder than a miner's ass out here."

"I'm making sure only three catch on fire."

"How can you tell how many there are?"

"Look harder."

With the wind blowing and mixing the smoke together, it was hard to see, but there were the separate tufts of smoke coming from behind the estate. There were two already, and then a third came puffing up. She waited a couple minutes with Delvin impatiently rubbing his hands against his arms for warmth. When no more smoke clouds sprouted up, she decided the recruit had done as told and motioned with her head to the door. Groaning in relief, Delvin quickly opened the door to the city and headed inside. She slowly followed behind him as they reached the cemetery and he knelt down to press on the familiar button to open up the "tomb" that lead to the cistern. The mechanical screech of stone moving filled the quiet night air, and the pair disappeared into the sewer tunnel below.

They found Brynjolf leaning against the bar in The Ragged Flagon, already half drunk from the looks of his smile. Though he had a high tolerance for alcohol and an even better ability to fake sobriety, Vex knew the Nord well enough by this point to be able to immediately identify his "drunk" face. His head would nod just the slightest while he was standing, and he would get the softest smile on his lips. It was different from his usual confident grin or his self-satisfied smirk. It was completely genuine like there were absolutely no problems going on in his intoxicated head. At the sight of them, his eyes lit up like a dog seeing its owner return and he held his hands up welcoming them back. That look made her almost forget that her earlier decision to sock him in the face again.

"So what's the verdict?"

"Smoke's up," Delvin said as he sat down at his usual table.

Vex leaned against the bar on next to Brynjolf and motioned for Vekel to over to the counter. "And she surprisingly didn't level the place."

"Fantastic! See I told you she'd be useful to have around."

"How much have you had to drink?"

"More than he needs," Vekel answered for him.

An indignant frown on his lips, Brynjolf waved the bartender off with his hand. "I'll be the judge of that. Anyway, it doesn't count today. I'm celebrating."

"She hasn't come back yet," Vex reminded him. "All I said was she finished the beehives. She could still be killed by the guards inside the house."

"Well, then I'm drinking my sorrows away due to the loss of a new member of our little family – and probably my job. It works either way."

With a faint chuckle, she nodded over at Vekel. "I'll have what he's having."

"A nasty hangover in the morning?"

"That's the one."

Vekel smirked to himself and muttered something under his breath that the infiltrator didn't quite catch. Once he returned with her drink, Vex took a sip and looked over at Brynjolf, happily smiling to himself as with a rather wistful look in his eyes. There was something so nostalgic about the way he acted when he was in the Flagon. Vex hadn't been around to see the glory days. She had shown up in The Ragged Flagon about several back and came back every day until she found out who was in charge. Eventually, while particularly drunk to the point where even he was showing, Brynjolf came stumbling over to her table one night and asked her who she was and what she was doing here. She had no connection to any former glory the Guild may have ever had. She only knew what she had been told.

"Why are you so obsessed with finding someone new?"

Curiously, Brynjolf lifted his head. "Beg your pardon?"

"We can barely afford to keep feeding the people we have, and yet you seem to think more people will fix this."

"Having more people means having more coin."

"Not when they're useless."

Anyone other than Brynjolf would have lashed out at her for that. Her harsh honesty tended to rub people in all the wrong ways, but Brynjolf, he was different. Despite the fact that they bickered constantly – but even that was more teasing banter than a real dispute, it took a lot for her to really get under his skin. This infuriating ability of his to brush her off like she was no more than a buzzing fly had nearly driven her mad when she first met him. If there was one thing Vex hated more than anything, it was being ignored, and that's what she thought he'd been doing at first. Now, she knew better. Brynjolf noticed everything she did, good or bad, and he accepted for what it was, what she was, which was oddly comforting to her. Setting down his cup, he just looked up, mouthing something with his lips, and then turned to her with the slyest smile.

"Well, I found you, didn't I?"

Smirking, she took a swig from her drink and looked up at him. "You know very well that I found you."

. . .

A mercenary was humming a jaunty little tune to himself as she slowly snuck past him and continued down through the cellar. The job had gone smoother than expected so far. She had burned down the hives without issue and snuck into the manor through the sewers with only a little trouble from some skeevers lurking in the shadows. Though filled with patrolling guards – one of which she almost got caught by, the warmth from inside the house had been a welcome change from the frigid winds outside. Eventually, she found the room with the safe in it and picked open the lock. Inside, there was a good bit of coin, a couple other items of interest, and a nicely written letter. She quickly decided the letter would be much better off being read to her later, than it would be if she just sat down and spent the next ten minutes trying to read the first sentence before one of the guards wandered in and set off the alarm. Besides, Brynjolf would probably want to read it anyway. Looking around, she found a passage which seemed to lead down to the sewers, and she quietly made her way back through the tunnels and up the ladder she'd come in through.

The winds had only gotten worse since she'd entered the sewers, and the snow was falling at an increasingly rapid rate. She looked around for the little rowboat she had "borrowed" earlier and tied up nearby, but the winds must have shoved it back out into the lake. Realizing the only way back was to swim, she found the letter in her pack and tucked it away under her cuirass, hoping her armor was more waterproof than her bag. Taking a deep breath, she then plunged herself into the icy waters of the lake, swimming as fast as she could to the shore. Finally surfacing on the other side, she pulled herself onto the land and rolled over onto her back as she took a couple minutes to catch her breath. Too cold to stay there any longer than necessary, she quickly got back on her feet and headed back to Riften.

Soaking wet and nearly frozen, she eventually stumbled into The Ragged Flagon. It never felt this warm before inside the Ratway. As soon as she spoke with Brynjolf, she was going to find all the blankets she could cover herself with and just pile them on until she wasn't cold any more. At the bar Vex and Brynjolf were drinking at the bar, lively chatting about something. She pulled out the mostly intact letter and sat it down in front of Brynjolf. Inquisitively, he looked down at the still shivering girl. She imagined she looked rather miserable with her hair matted down from ice and lake water and her clothes drenched and clinging to her tiny frame.

"What happened to you, lass?"

"The l-lake's a lit-ittle cold-d."

Leaving him in with a perplexed look, she headed through the back hall to the cistern and found her bed. After she stripped down of her wet clothes, she sat down on her bed and burrowed like a mouse under the blankets. It didn't provide as much warmth as she had hoped, but it was enough for now. As she lay there, completely cut off from the world by a couple thin layers of cloth, she had to fight the notion in her head that this was how she would die. After everything she had been through – all the improbable odds she had survived, she was going to wake tomorrow with a fever and die in a sewer a couple days later of a cold. With her luck, it would be an unfortunately fitting end to die such an undignified and ordinary death. Shaking her head as if the action would dispel her thoughts, she told herself she was being silly. She had faced down so much worse than this and come out of it with nothing more than a few scars and complexes. Still, the air in her little blanket-cave felt thin, and the onset of lightheadedness was rearing its ugly head.

After a couple minutes, she felt a hand press down on the blankets where her shoulder was, causing her to nearly jerk out of her fortress. At her panicked movement, the hand immediately withdrew, and as she took a couple calming breaths, she poked only her face out from under the covers, resembling a butterfly in its cocoon. Brynjolf was standing above her with a small smile. She hadn't recognized it in the Flagon, but there was the overwhelming smell of mead coming off of him though he didn't seem particularly drunk. Frowning slightly, she burrowed rather childishly back into her blankets.

"You okay, lass?"

"I'm fine."

"You did a good job tonight, lass. I'm proud of you."

She paused for a moment. "Thank you."

"I have to ask. Did you recognize the symbol on this letter?"

"I didn't read it."

"Would you mind coming out for a bit to see if you do?"

With a small noise of disapproval, she stuck her hand out for him to put the letter in. Once the parchment was in her hand, she quickly snatched it back under the blankets and began to read it over. The writer of the note had decided to use the largest vocabulary possible, and it took her a bit longer than necessary to get the basic gist of it. The estate had been sold, and Aringoth had been ordered to cease all deals with the Guild. Given her current condition, what was in the letter itself wasn't all that interesting to the recruit, but what did catch her eye was an odd symbol, a twisted dagger over a black circle, at the top of the page. It was intriguing, but nonetheless she didn't recognize it. Folding the paper, she stuck her hand back out to Brynjolf.

"I've never seen it."

"I'll ask Mercer."

There was another pause. For a second, she thought he had left, but something in her could still feel him standing over the bed.

"Do you need anything? I could get Rune to make you a hot meal. Believe it or not, the lad brews a mean venison stew."

"It's fine."

She felt the mattress dent as Brynjolf sat down at the foot of her bed just next to her legs. Holding her breath, she waited for something to happen – a word, an advance – something to dispel the tension rising in her chest even if it meant a call to arms. After a second, she heard him let out a rather loud sigh.

"Look, lass. I feel a little bad about sending you out in a blizzard."

"I'll survive."

"Are you angry with me?"

With a roll of her eyes, she contemplated just staying silent until Brynjolf left. She wasn't angry with him or even irritated at him. What she was irritated at was how hard it was for her to speak to people and how often her silence came across as poor manners. Trying to restrain her frustration so he wouldn't think it was aimed at him, she sat up on the bed and adjusted the blankets to stay wrapped around her body, partially for warmth and partially for decency.

"I don't have anything to say. I don't mean to sound rude or passive-aggressive or anything. I just don't speak much."

Chuckling, the red-haired thief shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, I'm just honestly not used to that. You'd think with a profession that relies on stealth, we'd have more people like you, but to be honest, we don't really get much of the quiet types down here. Even Vex loves the sound of her own voice."

"Oh."

As she thought about Vex and her intimidating stare, it occurred to the recruit that she would be spending a lot of time down here with these people, and that it wouldn't hurt to at least try to converse with them. Of course, that was a lie. Speaking to people could hurt worse than a bottle to the face. When she spoke too long, these little, anxious knots would tie up in her stomach, and she would find herself biting and picking the skin off the area around her nails. Still, as long as she mostly kept the other person talking and didn't say that much herself, she could survive it without too much going wrong, and Brynjolf definitely seemed the type to carry a good deal of a conversation.

"Does Vex hate me?"

"What? No, she just doesn't like anyone, and you are unfortunately under the category of anyone."

"She seems to like you."

"I'm not just anyone, lass. I'm special."

There was a pause, and she bit her lip. Quickly, a plan formulated in her head.

"How did you meet her?"

He laughed. "You say that like she's my wife. Like I told you last night, there's nothing going on there."

"And I told you I didn't want to know."

"Then why are you asking?"

It was an honest enough question. The truth was that over the years she had found the easiest way to feign a conversation was to get someone to tell a story. The other person could do all the talking, and all she had to do was listen and nod. Though it might seem disingenuous, she did care on some level what about what was being said. Even if it was completely false, stories were good ways to judge someone's character and an even better way to gain their approval, so long as she didn't pry into territory the other clearly wasn't comfortable with talking about. It was a nice way to at least pretend to connect with other people.

"I want to know this."

Cocking his head back, Brynjolf mused over her request for a second before standing up.

"All right, I'll tell you, but first, I want you to put on some dry clothes and eat something warm. Don't want you catching your death in this old place."

. . .

After the Goldenglow job, the Guild quickly fell back into the same routine as before. The coin continued to flow in but never stayed very long. Mercer had been livid about the bill of sale found in Aringoth's safe, going on and on to his second later that night about how they had to stomp out this problem and quickly. Fortunately, the guild master's ire settled a bit when the elf quickly "disappeared" soon after Maven caught wind of the news. Exactly where Aringoth went after that was a part of the job that Brynjolf tried not to contemplate, but it wasn't like he was particularly sad to see him go. The Altmer had always been a bit of a pain in the ass to deal with.

That first week after Goldenglow, Brynjolf heard some of the strangest stories he had ever been told. The recruit – whom Delvin was affectionately referring to at the time as Sticks, a nickname that rather ironically didn't stick – was just as dodgy about her past with the others as she had been with Brynjolf. Each member seemed to have been told a different tale. She was an Alik'r warrior who had been abandoned by her comrades, an extremely undercover Thalmor agent snooping out possible worshippers of Talos, a rejected lover of Ulfric Stormcloak who now drowning her sorrows in a sewer. The list went on, and every time she had used the same deadpan expression that almost made it sound real. Brynjolf's personal favorite was the one she had told Cynric about being a priestess of Sanguine whose hobbies included sacrificing goats and dancing naked in the moonlight, if only for the slightly horrified expression on the old Breton's face as he retold the tale.

Just as Brynjolf had suspected, over the next month, the recruit had quickly found a nice, little spot in the Guild just like the rest of them. That spot, however, might as well have been the resident ghost. More often than not, the girl was out on jobs, which was a pleasant surprise to Brynjolf and a foot in the mouth to Vex. When she was there, well, she hadn't been exaggerating when she had told him that she didn't speak much. For the most part, she kept her head down and stayed out of sight. She never initiated conversation with anyone other than Delvin or Vex, and that was only to get jobs. She didn't even really speak with Tonilia when she sold off her "possessions."

Even stranger than her stories was her behavior. She had these worrisome little habits that once noticed were near impossible to ignore. There were always scabs on her lips and blood around her cuticles from where she had picked the skin off. If anyone so much as brushed against her, she would always flinch in the slightest if not full on jerk her whole body away. More than once, someone had found the girl passed out in increasingly odd places such as under the bar of the Flagon, in the training room, behind the Temple of Mara. Every time she would give the same flighty excuses: "I must have forgotten to eat" or "I just haven't slept in awhile." One night, Brynjolf had even caught her sitting in a corner the Ratway, barely holding herself together and breathing at an unsteady rate like she had been attacked. When questioned about it, she just looked up at him with that spacey face of hers and claimed she didn't know what he was talking about.

"I like Sticks and all," Delvin had said to Brynjolf over a game of cards late one night, "but she's loonier than Sheogorath's court jester. She kills someone on a job, and we're shippin' her off to Astrid. Got it?"

Brynjolf had laughed, but the old man's words had struck a little too close to home. "You don't think she's really Brotherhood material, do you?"

"I was thinking it was either that, or her mother breastfed her with skooma."

Though he had figured Delvin was being a little paranoid as always, Brynjolf found himself watching the recruit a little closer after that. However, that was around the time she started to ease into the guild, even making what could have been considered friendships with a couple of her fellow thieves. She had a love like no other for hearing stories, which won her quick favor with Vipir and Niruin. With a content smile on her lips, she would sit by the waters of the cistern and listen almost eagerly as they spun their tales to her. Soon afterwards, the guild had finally settled on a name for her after Vipir got a little too drunk one night and decided he was going to guess everyone's true name.

A couple of the junior members had been standing around the bar as Vex and Brynjolf sat back at a table and watched their inebriated antics. Having started drinking nearly an hour before the rest joined him, Vipir the Fleet had been by far the most intoxicated of the lot, barely able to hold himself up as he waved his arms around wildly. To keep himself upright, he kept leaning on Rune, who was smiling and trying to keep the giant Nord off of him without causing a scene. On the other side of Vipir, Niruin, being the lightweight he was, sat giggling and swaying slightly on a stool next to the recruit, who was propping her head up with her hand. Despite constantly forgetting to eat, the girl surprisingly drank like a sailor.

"Rune, my boy," Vipir had announced in a rather loud voice, falling once more onto the boy's shoulder. "You are actually Grognak."

The boy had simply laughed and gently pushed the drunken man off of his shoulder again.

"I like that. Sounds manly."

"Good, good. Vex, your name is actually Portia."

"Not even close."

Muttering something undoubtedly lewd just quietly enough that Vex didn't catch it, Vipir turned his attention toward Brynjolf. The red-haired Nord just took a sip of his mead and waited for whatever potentially ridiculous thing would come out of the drunken man's mouth.

"And Brynjolf, you're a sneaky one aren't you? Telling us a real-sounding name, but it's not actually your name at all. Is it, Iver Thin-Bones?"

"I think you've had a little too much to drink, lad."

Waving his hands around dismissively, Vipir made a face and turned back to the others, nearly falling over as he did so. Chuckling, Brynjolf continued to watch the scene as Vex shook her head though she appeared a little less annoyed than usual.

"Bah, that's just what he wants us to think. – Now, where was I? Ah, Niruin! That's probably actually your name. There's probably a more elfish way of pronouncing it, but I'm not going to try."

Finally, he turned his attention on the Breton woman. Examining her thoughtfully, he pursed his lips before finally dubbing her: "Tomas."

The girl's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "How did you know?"

"Wait, really?"

Genuinely confused, Vipir's mouth hung open as he cocked his head back. Vex rolled her eyes at their foolishness and mumbled the word "idiots" under her breath. Trying to hold back a fit of laughter at Vipir's reaction, Rune and Niruin both nearly buckled over, but the recruit's face stayed as serious as ever.

"My friends used to call me Tom."

"You're shitting me."

"No, no," Niruin answered for her, attempting to feign composure. "It's true. Isn't it, Brynjolf?"

Playing along, Brynjolf held up his glass. "Aye. How did you not know this, lad?"

"Don't encourage them," Vex snapped.

"Relax. It's just a bit of fun."

Vex had crossed her arms and made a face at him as the others continued teasing Vipir. At one point in the night, they had managed to convince him that she was a man. The next morning, Rune and Niruin had started calling the recruit Tom, which greatly puzzled a hung-over Vipir the Fleet. Considering the girl's lithe figure and the way she stood with her shoulders hunched an her hands in her pocket like an adolescent boy, it wasn't much of a surprise how quickly the name caught on. However, with the name came a certain confidence and she began to come out of her shell a little more. She would sit around the Flagon and tell Delvin about her latest heist, train her marksman skill with Niruin, and drink herself to sleep with Vipir and Rune. As the spring rolled near, her progress, while small, was beginning become more and more evident, even catching the ever watchful eye of a certain client.

. . .

The first thing she'd noticed as her eyes began to open was the throbbing pain in her head, and she wondered just how much she had drunk the night before. A foul taste in her mouth suggested it had been far too much. The second thing she noticed was the hand shaking her awake. Instinctively panicking, she reached out and grabbed the shoulders of the figure above her pulling him down. There was a startled yelp as the momentum of his fall caused both of them to tumble off the other side of the bed. She pinned her "assailant" to the floor, readying her fist, as her vision focused in on the face of a familiar, frightened Bosmer.

"Azura's tits, Tom! What was that for?"

"Sorry."

As she dismounted Niruin, she heard someone snickering nearby. Standing up, she looked over to the other side of the bed to see Cynric Endell with his hand covering his mouth, barely hiding an elated grin at the elf's misfortune. Niruin dusted himself off and got back on his feet, glowering over at the other man.

"Very funny."

"You should have seen your face when she grabbed you."

The Breton man mimicked an overly dramatic, terrified expression before he broke down into another fit of laughter. Not nearly as amused by the situation, Niruin folded his arms and pouted his lips. Tom curiously looked back and forth between the two as she tried to figure out what was going on and why the pair had woke her up. Niruin's presence made sense. Over the past month and a half, Tom had struck up somewhat of a friendly acquaintanceship with the elf, but Cynric, on the other hand, had never shown much interest in talking to her or anyone for that matter. As the man calmed down from his laughter, he grinned over at Niruin.

"Come on, it was funny."

Before Niruin could think of a witty enough comeback, Tom spoke up.

"What's going on?"

"It's the first of First Seed," Niruin explained bitterly. Fortunately his resentment was mostly aimed at Cynric. "The archers in the Guild have this little tradition. Since we aren't supposed to kill anyone on a job and firing at immobile dummies leaves little to work with, it keeps our skills shar–"

"We're going deer hunting, girl," Cynric interrupted. "You want to come?"

"I was going to get to that."

"You were taking too long."

"Excuse me for being eloquent, unlike you." He lowered his voice in near perfect imitation of Cynric's gravelly voice. "_So, Thrynn, heh heh, is it true that bandits, heh heh, get real 'friendly' with the wild life? Heh heh._"

Shamelessly, the Breton man shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back toward Tom.

"So you coming or what?"

Her instincts screamed at her that this was a trap. For whatever reason, they would turn the tables on her sometime during their little outing and make it look like an accident, but she quickly suppressed this notion. In order to keep from looking like a lunatic to the other members, she had been on her absolute best behavior since joining the Guild, and she wasn't about to screw that up just to quell her own paranoid tendencies. Besides, she was being unreasonable. There was no reason for these people to hurt her.

"Sure."

"Great. Get yourself ready and meet us outside the main city gate." He looked over at Niruin. "Make sure she gets everything she needs."

As the man left, Tom walked over to the chest by her bed and began rummaging through it to find her bow. She set it down on the floor along with her quiver and dagger then grabbed her boots lying nearby. As she put them on, she gazed up at the elf standing over her, his face still stuck in a scowl from his squabble with Cynric.

"So why are we doing this?'

The Bosmer smiled. "Oh, well, as I was saying, we don't get a lot of time to practice with moving targets, so we have these hunting trips every once in awhile to keep our skills sharp. For the most part, we just do them whenever we've all got a day off, but we set aside the first of First Seed as a special, first hunt of the year. I don't know all the details. They've been doing this long before me. I think it was Karliah who started it."

"Who's Karliah?"

"You mean you haven't heard yet?"

"No."

"She was before my time. My, I think she was before everyone's time. Cynric's one of the older members, and even he had only just joined when she – left. From what I've heard, she was this amazing, little Dunmer woman, who had skill with the bow that would put even me to shame. The guild master before Mercer, a man named Gallus, had grown fond of her – a little too fond some might say. The story goes that one day Mercer was riding out to meet Gallus. The former guild master fancied himself the scholar and was always investigating new things. As he saw his friend waiting for him, he dismounted his horse just as an arrow struck Gallus' chest. As the guild master crumpled to the ground, Mercer looked up to see just a flash of Karliah before she disappeared into the woods. Mercer took over the guild, and Karliah never came back."

"She killed him?"

It came as a nasty shock. Brynjolf had said the guild was like family, and during her time there, she had found that the thieves, while they bickered like old married couples and certainly threatened each other on a regular basis, would never do anything to bring their fellow guild mates physical harm, or at least not serious harm. Even Mercer and Vex had limits to their anger. The idea of such a grim betrayal seemed impossible.

"That's the story. It's one of my favorites after the time Delvin got his head stuck in a storm drain."

As she finished lacing up her boots, Tom let out a small chuckle as she gathered her things and stood up.

"How did he manage that?"

"Oh, now there's a story for you!"

As they exited through The Ragged Flagon out to the Ratway, Niruin excitedly recounted the tale of a drunken Delvin. The sky was still dark when they came out of the sewers and Niruin finished speaking. She loved the way the elf told stories. He had this rather animated way of talking that made everything seem that much more interesting. Something about the way he moved his hands while talking, Tom couldn't help but be reminded of an old friend she'd had growing up, a wood elf like himself, though Niruin's background greatly differed from his. Once the pair reached the gates of Riften, they spotted Cynric and Vipir lazily leaning against the stone walls with bored expressions on both of their faces.

"We ready?" the Breton man asked and Tom nodded. "Excellent."

With the glow of dawn breaking under the trees, the group travelled down the road and veered off through a path through the woods. Since arriving in the city, Tom hadn't gotten much time to really explore the area around Riften, usually sticking to the main road when she went out on jobs. She quickly found herself wishing she had taken more trips outside the city. In that golden haze of early morning, a forest had never looked so magical. Birds chirped in the trees above them, and a rabbit scurried across their path. As they quietly came up on a small creek, Cynric and Vipir stopped, and they camped out behind a particularly wooded area just behind the creek.

"Okay, kids," Cynric said as he sat down at the foot of a tree. "You two know the drill. Don't hunt go trespassing on the lodge, and don't piss off anything you can't handle. Meet back here before sunset."

Nodding, Vipir and Niruin began to head off in separate directions. Tom started to wander off as well, but the other Breton called her back.

"Wait, girl."

She turned around. "Yes?"

"You know this area?"

She shook her head, and Cynric stood up with a sly grin. "Then, it's probably best you stick with me. Don't want you to end up getting lost and wandering into Morrowind or back into Cyrodiil."

The word "back" caught her off guard, but she didn't press it in case he didn't mean anything by it. Without another word, the two Bretons began to stalk through the forest. As the day went on, Tom found that Cynric was a much better shot than her. It became especially apparent after she hit an elk in the side with an arrow only for the animal to go running off into the forest. Chasing after it, she haphazardly fired her bow in the general direction of the elk. While she was pulling out another arrow, something went flying past her line of sight and the creature fell dead several feet in front of her. Bewildered, she quickly turned around and saw the Breton man putting away his bow a few yards behind her. He started walking toward his kill.

"Sorry, kid. Just wanted to make sure it didn't get too far away from us."

"It's fine."

Tom went searching for any stray arrows of hers she could find. They had been out there for what seemed like hours. By this point, the sun was high in the clear, blue sky. The forest felt of the gentle warmth of spring and a nice cool breeze would pick up every so often. She was pulling her arrow out of a tree when for the second time that day she heard a loud yelp coming from a familiar, elfin voice. From a few feet away, Cynric looked up from the deer he was kneeling over and exchanged confused glances with Tom as they saw a slender figure in the distance barreling towards them.

"What in the – "

"Bear! Bear! Bear!"

Upon hearing the screams, Tom could have sworn she felt her heart stop, but Cynric just shook his head as if Niruin was shrieking about something as harmless as a butterfly.

"I told him not to piss off anything he couldn't handle, but did he listen? No, and now I have to go save his ass."

As Cynric and Tom ducked behind a tree, they watched Niruin grow closer. That was when Tom spotted the growling beast chasing after him. Fortunately, so long as the elf didn't slow down or trip, the great bear was far enough behind him that it wouldn't be able to catch him before they could do something. Holding his breath, Cynric waited for a clear shot. The elf was almost at them, the bear gaining on his heels. A howl filled the air. Releasing the string, the thief's arrow flew through the air and struck the bear in the side of the neck, stunning it but not killing it. Niruin took this distraction as an opportunity to hide behind a bush and catch his breath. With a loud laugh, Cynric jumped out from behind the tree in some crazed, adrenaline rush. Frantically, Tom tried to reach out and grab him back before the bear spotted him, but it was too late. The creature turned its head and slowly began lumbering toward the Breton, who just pulled another arrow from his quiver and drew back the string.

"Come and get me!"

"Don't taunt the bear!" Tom snapped at him in a hushed voice.

Backing up a few steps, he fired an arrow at the bear just as it began to lunge at him. Luckily, it hit right between the eyes, and the beast fell to the ground with another howl. Laughing hysterically, Cynric put away his bow and stood over the dead bear with pride. The tension slowly leaving her body, Tom caught her breath and stepped out from behind the tree as well. Over in the bushes, Niruin was sitting on the ground and breathing heavily. The danger had passed, but something still felt wrong.

"Who's going to stop me now?" he bragged as he pulled out his knife.

Then what was wrong hit her like a charging bear.

"Bears don't howl."

A puzzled look on his brow, Cynric turned around to face Tom. Opening his mouth, he was interrupted by a flash of black fur tackling him to the ground. Pivoting on her heel, she spotted two angry wolves rushing toward her. As she quickly pulled her dagger from her belt, the closest one whined and dropped to the ground, an arrow sticking out of its eye. The remaining one lunged at her, and she instinctively swung her weapon at it, slicing it across the snout. The wolf backed off for a second, and another arrow finished it off. She turned back toward Cynric still struggling on the ground with the first wolf. Not far off, Niruin was drawing another arrow as the wolf bit its teeth into the Breton man's arm.

Taking a deep breath, Tom concentrated her energy and shot the creature with a green light, dazing both the man and the animal. Quickly regaining his poise, Cynric grabbed for his knife lying just barely within reach and jabbed it into the disoriented wolf's throat. He twisted the knife and pulled it out before kicking the dead animal off of him. Offering her hand, Tom helped him get back on his feet. He brushed himself off and looked around exhaling deeply.

"Well, that was exciting."

With a sigh of relief, Niruin put away his bow and stood up slowly before walking over to the others.

"Let me see your arm."

Making a face, Cynric reluctantly rolled up his sleeve and let the elf inspect the rather deep bite mark.

"That could be infected. We better get back to the cistern so I can patch this up."

"Quit fussing. I'm fine."

They bickered for awhile over the severity of Cynric's injury before something came stumbling through the branches. Tom spun around to see that it was just Vipir the Fleet. Examining the dead animals lying around the trio, he cocked an amused eyebrow and looked up at them.

"Seems I missed all the excitement. What happened here?"

"Got attacked by a bear and a couple wolves," Cynric answered dryly. "No big deal."

"Tell him he needs to get this treated."

"It's fine."

"Don't be a child."

"You're the one fussing over a little bite."

Having had enough of their fighting, Tom cleared her throat and managed to get everyone's attention.

"I think we should head back. With our luck today, it's only a matter of time before a dragon swoops down on us."

Niruin smirked victoriously, and Cynric grimaced before nodding his head in slight agreement. Packing up their things, the four made their way back to Riften. By the time they entered The Ragged Flagon, the Bosmer and Breton man had put aside their earlier disagreement and were laughing as they told Vipir in dramatic detail of the "great battle" in the forest. The three men stood around the bar and ordered drinks as Tom felt a hand gently grab her shoulder. She spun around to see Brynjolf.

"Where have you been, lass? I've been looking everywhere for you."

"I went deer hunting," she told him in a detached tone. "We got attacked by a bear and some wolves."

Chuckling, Brynjolf crossed his arms. "That sounds like quite the tale. Look, we got a letter this morning, and it seems Maven Black-Briar herself wants to speak with you."

Even after everything that had occurred in the past couple of hours, that sentence alone was the most frightening thing that had happened all day. The breath knocked from her lungs, she stared up at the Nord with pleading eyes and felt every muscle in her body tighten defensively. The room was so small, and her head was so heavy. Panicking, she had to get out of there, run right out of Riften, but her feet wouldn't move.

"But I didn't do anything wrong."

"Oh no, lass. It's okay. If she was angry with you she'd be calling on the Dark Brotherhood. This is just business."

Suddenly feeling foolish, she relaxed a bit. "Oh."

"Can I give you little word of advice? You have to be a bit more confident than that when you face Maven. Not cocky, but don't let her walk all over you. Otherwise she'll chew you up and spit you right out."

He placed his hands on her tiny shoulders. For once, she didn't immediately flinch or jerk away from someone's touch. She wondered if this meant she was beginning to trust this man and knew she was making a grave mistake. Still, there was this completely nonthreatening and genuinely concerned look on Brynjolf's face that made the gesture simply comforting. It had been a long time since she felt that safe with anyone.

"Understand?"

Nodding slightly, she backed away from him still shaken by the strange feeling of comfort. "I'll go find her right now."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Notes: <em>If you can catch half the pop culture references in this chapter, you win my hand in marriage, but not really. Also, I rewrote a lot of this chapter so please point out if a sentence cuts out midway through a paragraph or something.

Edit: five minutes after posting this chapter. Yep, I forgot something.


	4. Chapter Four: Liberty

Chapter Four: Liberty

Maven Black-Briar was not a woman known for her patience. Though she could keep a seemingly calm exterior, everyone knew there were serious ramifications for not giving Maven exactly what she wanted exactly when she wanted it. Over the years, she had found, as long as others knew she would live up to her word, that the threat of pain was far better for keeping the little vermin in line than the feeling of pain and that dead bodies made for poor workers. She had just about perfected the art of intimidation and had the entire city of Riften wrapped around her pinkie finger. No one ever so much as dared breathe in her direction and scurried like rats away from her as she walked down the streets. As she sat in the Black-Briar Manor, drinking her tea and reading over her latest business contracts, she felt herself growing impatient.

It had been an infuriatingly bad year for the business woman. First, that swine, Aringoth, had crossed her by selling Goldenglow, an act that had inevitably cost him more than it had her. Now with this growing interest in Honningbrew Mead that had come out of nowhere, her sales figures had drastically dropped over the past couple years and she would not stand for this new competition. The previous night, she had sent word to Mercer that she needed assistance, but the woman she had requested was taking her sweet time getting around to meeting with her. Maven would have to remember to inform the thief of the error of her ways so she would not make this mistake again. Taking a sip from her tea to calm her nerves, she dabbed her mouth with a cloth and continued looking over her work.

Mercer Frey's little band of crooks would very well be the death of her. Over the years, they had been nothing but a headache and several grey hairs, and Maven was very close to cutting her losses with them. Then, she had heard word of a new recruit that had picked up the failings of the others, quickly climbing the ladder of the Guild. This, coupled with the work the woman had done with Goldenglow, had quite frankly impressed Maven. It had been so long since anyone within her ranks had shown any signs of competency, and this ambitious, young woman could prove to make a very powerful ally. Maven missed the days when she saw that same determined proficiency in Mercer. It had been Mercer who had convinced Maven to align herself with the guild in the first place.

The pair had met when they were both much younger. Mercer had just joined the ranks of the Guild, and Maven had recently started up her meadery. Both had an eye for opportunity and proved to make quite the formidable partnership. Over the next few years, she had grown quite fond of the thief, developing a strange admiration and respect she had never felt for anyone other than herself. Mercer had been everything Maven needed in an ally. Headstrong and resilient, he was able to converse with Maven on her level, but as a thief he could get his hands dirty while she played the role of the innocent business woman. When Gallus departed and Mercer seized control of the Thieves Guild, Maven had hoped that this would make them unstoppable, but sadly, Mercer's ability as a leader proved to be horribly disappointing. Though ruthlessly cunning and a brilliant thief, he simply did not have the planning skills and foresight necessary for the position.

After that, Maven's relationship with Mercer became strained to the point that she now only communicated with him through letters. As she realized that he was no more than the common rabble, her respect and admiration for him floundered, and the mere sight of him began to remind her of his wasted potential. The letdown of it all was heartbreaking, really. What she had found in Mercer was more than an ally. She had thought that he understood her, that he was so much more than what he turned out to be, but it made her stronger. Mercer had taught her that no one was more capable than she was and that others were only good for underlings and enemies. Though it was quite possible the girl would fail as all others did, even if this recruit proved not to be a bumbling idiot, she would still never be worthy of Maven's respect.

Pouring more tea into her cup, she heard the sound of the front door opening and muffled voices. Quiet footsteps made their way down the hall toward her study. Looking up, she saw Hemming enter the door frame.

"Mother, there's someone here to see you."

Behind him stood an unfamiliar Breton girl – if it even was a girl – who had no business being in Maven's house. Her face dirty and her body skeletal, she looked like she had just rolled out of the gutter with the rest of the riffraff in this town. She wore the traditional Thieves Guild armor. Maven narrowed her eyes and made a mental note to remind Mercer to be more thorough when choosing new members or he might just lose her as a client. Frowning, Maven looked back to her parchment.

"If you have a bounty on your head, I don't care. I am not going to fix it for you."

"Actually, I was told you had a job for me."

Shaking her head, Maven waved her off. Mercer clearly hadn't understood that when she expressly requested one of his subordinates, she wanted that specific one. This was not the ambitious young woman whom she had sent for. This was some street urchin that Brynjolf had sent as a half-witted joke.

"No, no. I wanted the other one, the one with the man's name. Sam, I think it was."

"Tom, and that's me."

Lifting her chin, Maven inspected the girl with a condescending glare. Though she tried to project confidence, this Tom girl had no presence and looked as if she might crumble over at any given second. Looking into the girl's eyes, Maven saw her fear and knew immediately what type of person she was dealing with. Maven had seen a thousand people just like this girl, and she knew before she died she would see a thousand more. They were weak, little children pretending to be someone important.

"Very well, then. Hemming, go make yourself scarce. Mother has business to attend to."

As her son left obediently, Maven took another sip from her tea and motioned for Tom to sit in the chair adjacent to her. Trying to hide her anxiety, she did as told and looked around the room feigning interest in the tapestries on the walls. She was so pathetic. Not a day older than Maven's own Ingun, the girl's dirt-covered face was so plain, nothing remarkable about it other than a few scars. This miserable excuse for a person just could not be the one she had heard so much about. Either that or the Guild was worse off than Maven had heard and this was the closest thing they had to hope.

"So, you're the one I've heard so much about. I was expecting you to be a little more – impressive."

"Brynjolf told me to come, and I did."

"Obedience? An admirable quality, but I've found it only useful for servants and house pets." – She took a calculated pause and watched the girl try to control the urge to squirm. – "So which are you, a servant or a house pet?"

"I don't follow."

"It's simple. A house pet follows its master out of blind loyalty. A servant reluctantly obeys its master out of fear, grumbling empty threats under its breath, but it does as told just the same."

"Sometimes servants rise up against their masters."

Her eyes quickly flickering up from her cup, the Nord woman's stomach quickly filled with a strange mix of anger and excitement. She kept her calm as she spoke.

"Was that a threat?"

Losing all sense of poise, the girl grew pale in fear and began to stammer.

"N-no. I'm so sorry. I w– I was just running my mouth."

It had been all too easy to put the girl in line. The muscles of her mouth tightened, and she began to pick methodically at the loose threads on her armor. As she took a breath, her brown eyes focused on the floor in order to avoid eye contact. Smirking to herself, Maven lifted her chin and looked down her nose at the girl.

"Well, then it would be best you keep it shut then, _hm_? Don't want you making a fool of yourself. Besides, we have business to discuss. There's this problem I have been having that has been a thorn in my side for far too long. I need you to go to Whiterun and speak to Mallus Maccius in The Bannered Mare. He will be able to fill you in on the details."

"Understood."

Standing up, Tom began to walk away, scurrying off like a frightened rabbit. Overcome with the satisfaction that came from the girl's unease, Maven set down her cup on the end table and let the girl get just a couple feet away before calling out to her.

"Oh, and Tom–"

Anxiously, the girl spun around as Maven straightened out her dress, an insincere smile on her lips.

"You never answered my question, but I know which one you are. You would do well to remember who is the servant and who is the master. Butcher this job, and you will regret it. Understand?"

. . .

"–I'm sorry, but do I know you?"

The gaunt-faced Imperial man had been explaining the job when he interrupted himself to ask this question. It had been a question she had been dreading. Since joining the guild, she had been required to make a few trips up to Whiterun, and every time she did, she wore her cowl in order to obscure the majority of her face. So far, no one had given her any trouble. The people who even noticed her presence ignored her in hopes that if they left her alone, the shady figure wouldn't cause them any trouble. This seemingly harmless question that this man – Mallus Maccius, Maven had called him – had asked her had been the one question she had been dreading, the reason she hid her face in Whiterun. He had recognized her.

She had to tread carefully. Bluntly denying any connection to him would draw suspicion and curiosity. Tilting her head, she feigned a pensive look and pretended to try to remember where she might know him from. Quickly, she snapped her fingers and leaned forward.

"Imperial City, 198? The Ivantus Ilarius performance on the steps of the White-Gold Tower? My hair was much longer then."

"Yeah! Damn, I think I had maybe just a pint too many that night."

Grinning to himself, Mallus leaned back in his chair, his tired eyes full of nostalgic longing for happier times. It had been an easy guess that he had attended that performance. The man was an Imperial and had that accent that marked him as someone who had grown up in Cyrodiil. Just about everyone in the country had gone to see the bard's performance, even some of the Emperor's family had been in attendance. Though Tom had been in the city at the time, she opted to miss the performance itself. The crowds of thousands of rowdy drunkards had packed into the tight area of the Palace district. They were so wild and unruly, but they still kept their smiles tight as they shouted song requests at a flustered Ivantus Ilarius. The guards had been on full alert for any suspicious behavior, but that didn't stop the shady dealers in the corners from peddling skooma to the concert-goers. Still, Tom hadn't wanted to risk being seen and had spent the night on the waterfront, listening to the low hum of the distant music and dull roar of the crowd.

As he snapped out of his memories, Mallus shook his head and continued to explain the job. The owner of the meadery, a man by the name of Sabjorn, was holding a tasting for the Whiterun guard but had recently ran into a bit of trouble with a skeever infestation. She was to pose as a friendly passerby willing to help rid the meadery of a pest problem then dump the poison in a mead vat to rid Maven of her competition. It was all so underhanded, but Maven had made it perfectly clear that Tom had little say in the matter. Restlessly readjusting herself in her chair, she leaned forward.

"Why are you doing this?"

The man's mouth twitched, and he looked to his drink with his eyes full of emotion. There was a defeated look on his bony face. Tom knew that look well. This was a man who had been beaten down by his life and was desperate for a chance to get out.

"A while back I borrowed coin from Sabjorn. He's letting me work it off, but he's working me to the bone. I'm just his slave now. I have to do every nasty job he gives me." – He smiled. – "But if this goes well, not only is my debt gone, but Maven and I worked out a little deal. Sabjorn goes to jail, and you're looking at the new manager of the Black-Briar Meadery in Whiterun. I'll be set up for life."

A small smile on her lips, Tom stood up and grabbed her pack off the ground. "Then I guess I have work to do."

"I guess you do."

As she headed out for Honningbrew Meadery, she began to feel like she was no longer walking on her own free will, as if someone had tied her up and was dragging her along to a destination and she had given up on fighting them. Her thoughts turned to what Maven had said to her about servants and masters. After their conversation, she had headed back to the undercity in a dizzy huff, grumbling to herself about how she was no one's serving girl. Her erratic behavior had rightfully garnered a couple perplexed stares from her fellow thieves, but at the time she hadn't cared. She had felt so weak and powerless as if she had no choice in what she did, and that feeling had not left her since Riften. On the road to the meadery with the midday sun directly overhead in the nearly cloudless sky, she was hit with the urge to run and to keep running until she collapsed somewhere far, far away from all her responsibilities to Maven, to the Guild, to the world.

There must have been something about Whiterun that had that effect on her. Being in that city always made her feel trapped, and she would soon find herself struck with wanderlust. It made her feel so pathetic and cowardly as if she had asked to be the hero. She didn't want it. She had never wanted anything but freedom. That was why she had left Whiterun when that guard had pronounced her that awful, hideous word. It was why she had spent six months of her life wandering aimlessly from town to town in a winter wasteland, trying to find somewhere she could hide and not have to worry about soldiers and dragons and destiny. It was why she stayed in Riften after Brynjolf had told her that her debt was cleared. The Guild was supposed to be a chance for her to have a purpose. It was a place to be protected and be able to come and go as she pleased.

Brynjolf had promised her freedom if she just stuck a ring in a merchant's pocket, but the damned Nord had lied to her. He had tricked her into a gilded cage where she was just as trapped but with the added pain of knowing it was by her own damn choice. Worst of all, he had tricked her into trusting him and feeling safe in her new little prison. Now she was Maven Black-Briar's servant. That was why the woman's words had upset her so much, because it was true. If she ran now, Maven would have her tracked down for failing to do her assignment. She had no choice but to continue down the road to the meadery and follow through with the job. She told herself it was for Mallus. She was going to do this to free him of Sabjorn's hold on him, and then she was going to go back to Riften pack her things and leave. Brynjolf had promised she could leave whenever she wanted, and it was time to put that to the test. She would find out just how much he had lied to her.

_Sometimes servants turn on their masters._ The words had been an accident, an absentminded slip of the tongue, but they still held true. People got so comfortable in their little routines that they often forgot that the ones closest to them could just as easily betray as a stranger could. From familiarity came comfort, and comfort was the enemy of the watchful eye. Sometimes that was a superior who blinded by their power, didn't believe that their subordinates were capable of overthrowing them, but sometimes it was more tragic than that. More often than not, to use Maven's analogy, betrayal came from the master to the house pet. One person would be truly devoted to another, only to find that the other never saw them as anything more than an object, something to be possessed and used. True loyalty – the kind that came out of genuine care from both parties – was rare, and when it did happen, it was the purest thing in the world.

Tom thought about the Guild: Brynjolf, Vex, Niruin, Vipir, and all the rest. Over the past weeks, she had grown fond of certain members and started to take comfort in the confines of the cistern, which was always so absurdly loud and quiet at the same time. Still, she did not know if her guild mates truly felt as dedicated to each other as Brynjolf said they did. Family, he had called them that first night. She hated to admit it, but some days the Ratway really did feel like a home. Still, she couldn't believe that people whose lives revolved around dishonesty could really care enough put another's needs before their own. Tom knew she struggled with loyalty in the past, and she was the most dishonest person she knew. She had to leave the Guild before she got in too deep.

. . .

Brynjolf was on his way up to the market when he saw the Breton girl enter into the cistern. Word had arrived the previous night that she had been successful in taking Sabjorn out of business, something that had greatly pleased Maven. Even Mercer had cracked a smile at the news. As she walked toward her bed, she looked as tired as ever. There was something about her face that made it seem as if no amount of sleep would ever make her appear rested, like even if she slept for a month straight, she would still look just as exhausted as she did when she went to bed.

"How was the job, lass?"

Not bothering to look over at him, she knelt down in front of her chest and began to dig through it and set the contents out on the floor. Brynjolf walked over to her and sat down on the foot of the bed. Curiously he watched her at work as she answered his question in a distracted tone.

"The usual. Did something underhanded, was nearly fried to a crisp by a madman, killed a bunch of skeevers – why is it always skeevers?"

"I don't know. Skyrim's been full of them so long as I can remember."

Tom didn't reply. Instead she focused on taking everything out of the chest. At first, it had just seemed like her usual bizarre behavior. Brynjolf had naturally assumed that she had decided to reorganize her possessions on some frenzied whim, but as she finished cleaning out the chest and started stuffing the objects strewn about the floor into that worn, old pack of hers, his smile began to fade.

"What are you doing, lass?"

"I'm leaving."

The curtness of her answer was what struck him the hardest. It felt like a jab to the gut that knocked him breathless. He had taken a risk with her, and now it was coming back to bite him in the ass. Since she hadn't botched anything, Mercer would most likely not blame him for her departure, but she still had proved to be a reliable asset for the Guild. Losing her could undo all the progress that had been made, and the Guild would slip back to barely making it by. He couldn't stop her from leaving. They had no contract. She was free to go whenever she pleased, but he didn't want her to go. There was simply too much at stake.

"Can I ask why?"

"Tell me something, Brynjolf. Why did you pay me for that first job?"

The question was a hard one to answer. If he lied to her and she found out the truth later, she would most definitely leave, but he also couldn't tell her the truth, that he had been lying to her from the beginning. Swallowing his pride, he opted for the truth and prayed to the gods he didn't believe in that she would be able to appreciate his honesty.

"I was never going to call the guards."

Immediately, she stopped packing. "You what?"

"That night when you picked my pocket, I had no intention of calling the guards on you. I just wanted you to do the job."

Slowly, she got on her feet. Her skinny legs were shaking as her face barely contained her inner rage. He hadn't seen her this emotional since that first night. Quickly grabbing a hold of herself, she covered her face with her hands and took a couple deep breaths. He readied himself for the impending explosion.

"Why?" The word came strangled out of her mouth in the most pitiful manner possible.

"I didn't think about it, lass. We were doing so poorly, and I saw you. I could tell you'd make an exceptional thief, but you wouldn't talk to me. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. I didn't think."

Removing her hands from her face, she looked down at him with disgust. She bit down hard on her bottom lip and shook her head.

"You didn't think. I knew I couldn't trust you. You just wanted a new pet, didn't you? Well, I'm not your little protégée, I'm not your errand girl, and I'm certainly not your pet."

Stunned by this wild accusation, he just watched in silence as Tom dropped back down to her knees, scraping them against the stone, and began packing more hastily than before. Brynjolf tried to reason why in that messed up little head of hers she would come to believe he saw her that way. He had done his best to welcome her into the family. Before she had left, she seemed like she was finally beginning to warm up to everyone, but something must have happened in the past couple of days to make her change her mind this drastically. Finally he found himself able to move again and reached his hand out to her shoulder, but she instantly batted it away.

"Look lass, I'm sorry I lied to you. I'll make it up to you if you just stay."

"You said I could leave whenever I wanted."

"You can. I just – Look. I'd be lying if I said this was completely because I like you and don't want to see you go. Don't get me wrong, lass. I do like you, but I have to think about what's best for the Guild, and you are what's best for the Guild."

Pausing for a second, she tilted her head in that inquisitive way of hers.

"What do you mean?"

"We have been doing so much better ever since you showed up. Sure, it's not much better, but it's a start, and it's because of you. It might not mean much to Vex or Mercer or anyone else, but it means the world to me because this place is my home and these people are my family. Sure, I know Delvin steals Vex's underclothes, and Cynric and Niruin argue like an old married couple, and Sapphire snaps at everyone, and _you_ are an irrational lunatic, but that doesn't mean I don't care for every single one of them. I want what's best for them, and if we don't start making coin, we're going to die out, and I can't let that happen. This is my home, and don't tell me you haven't started feeling like this is your home too."

It was Tom's turn to be dumbstruck now. Her mouth in a slight pout, she sat down on the ground, crossing her legs. There was an uncomfortable silence as she thought over his little tirade and unconsciously picked at the scabs on her lip. Finally, she lifted her chin and locked those wild brown eyes of hers with his blue.

"I'm still mad at you."

"Fair enough."

"I think I overreacted. Not about you lying, though. That was still a really shitty move on your part."

"I completely agree."

Sighing, she looked down at the ground. The way she hid her face from him gave a slight air of shame to her posture.

"You're right though. I am an irrational lunatic, and I'm not going to stop being irrational. Places feel like cages sometimes, and little things set me off. I know that probably sounds crazy, but it's how I get. I focus in on the stupidest things and convince myself they're true when there's no reason for it to be. The truth is this place has started to feel so much like home, and I think that scared me the most. I'm not used to having a place to stay and feel safe – Mara's grace, I must sound so pathetic."

"We all have our hang-ups. If you ask me, random bouts of irrationality sound like a lot better of a quirk than stealing women's knickers."

She gave a halfhearted laugh, still not looking him directly in the eye.

"I can't promise you that I'll stay, but I'm going to give it another month to see if I can adjust to this living situation. At the end of the month, I'll tell you my decision, but I swear if you lie to me one more time about something that directly affects me, I'm out of here. No discussion. No bargaining."

"That sounds more than fair."

"Good."

"Can I ask you something or are we not talking?"

"Oh no, I'm definitely not speaking with you for at least a week, but I will answer one question."

"What changed your mind about leaving?"

There was a pause as she bit her lip, more gently this time, and thought over her answer. For a second, Brynjolf thought she might not answer him.

"When I'm around other people, it's easier for me to realize when I'm being unreasonable. When you were talking about family, I don't know. I guess I believed you. Pretty stupid, considering I just found out you've done nothing but lie to me since we met."

"In my defense, you haven't exactly been honest with me either, Princess Fish."

"Shut up. You blackmailed me, bigger deal. What I'm trying to say is that maybe being here is good for me. Having people to talk to – a family. Maybe it will keep me from getting so damn paranoid all the time." – She paused. – "Now get off of my bed. I haven't slept since Niruin woke me up for that blasted hunting trip."

"I thought you weren't talking to me."

Smiling, she stood up and pushed against his shoulder. "That starts when I go to sleep. Now off."

Brynjolf faked a groan and stood up. "As you wish, lass."

. . .

Never had something as simple as city gates put such a warm feeling in her chest as the sight of gates to Riften did as the carriage neared the city after a particularly exhausting trip to Solitude. It frightened her how excited she was to see the city, but she quickly repressed her fears. It was still early in the day which meant Brynjolf would be in the market. It had been two weeks since the Honningbrew job and her subsequent breakdown in front of him. Unsurprisingly, she had kept true to her word about not speaking with him, though her threatening to not speak to someone was almost as inane as her threatening not to stab someone in the face. Still, since the incident, she had felt like a weight had been lifted from her chest. She found herself smiling much easier and speaking up much more frequently, at least within the confines of the Ratway. Outside the Guild, she was still as much a nervous wreck as ever, but even slight progress was progress. Brynjolf would be so proud of her optimism.

The cart rolled to a stop, and Tom thanked the driver as she hopped off the back. Quickly making her way into the city and over to the relatively empty marketplace, she stopped in front of Brynjolf's stand pretending to check out his merchandise. As he noticed her excitement, the red-haired Nord smiled down at her and shook his head.

"Look who's back. What's got you all sunshine and butterflies?"

"Oh nothing, I just got back from pulling a double job in Solitude."

Playing coy, she leaned casually against the post of the stand and did her best not to smile. He raised his eyebrows in dull surprise.

"That doesn't sound all that exciting."

"Well, after I was done with the job, I decided to go do some freelance work."

Looking around cautiously, he lowered his voice and leaned in toward her. "What did you take?"

"Secrets." She brought her finger to her lip in a silencing gesture. "You'll find out soon enough."

Tapping his fingers against the wood of the stall, Brynjolf puckered his lips to the side and gave her a suspicious glare before shrugging his shoulders and standing back up straight.

"Fine. Look, it's been a slow day. Do you want to get lunch at The Bee and Barb before you go back to being sullen?"

After a simple nod of confirmation on her part, he packed away his counterfeit potions into a small bag, and they headed toward the inn. It had been a good two months since she last stepped foot in The Bee and Barb. She had been avoiding it out of shame, and the look Talen-Jei gave her as she and Brynjolf to a seat at the far table did nothing to help her guilt. Of course, Brynjolf, his face bored and uninterested, paid no attention to the Argonian man's hostility as he approached the table to take their orders.

"What do you two want?"

"Do you still make that Velvet Lachance?" Brynjolf asked. "Because if you do, I'll have that and a salmon steak."

"I'll just have some bread. Oh, and I have something for you."

Both Brynjolf and Talen-Jei looked surprised by this as Tom leaned down and began rummaging through her pack. Spotting the gems, she pulled them out and gently placed the three flawless amethysts in the Argonian's hand. Dumbstruck, he looked down at them and opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.

"You told me about this awhile back ago. Sorry it took so long."

"Thank you."

As the Argonian walked off, Brynjolf gave Tom an incredulous look. "What was that about?"

Tom just shrugged and leaned back. Realizing she wasn't going to answer, Brynjolf began to tell her about some mishap Vipir the Fleet had managed to get himself into while she was away. Talen-Jei returned with their meals, and Tom began to pick off tiny pieces of the bread like a mouse. Looking up from his food, Brynjolf rolled his eyes at her.

"Is that really all you're eating?"

"I'm not that hungry."

"No wonder you're so skinny." – He paused. – "I have to ask. What's your story, lass?"

"My story?" she repeated the words distractedly. "I don't have a story."

"Everyone has a story, and I know everyone in the Guild's story except yours."

"You're telling me you know Vex's story."

"Aye, I surprisingly do. Now there's a tale for you."

Giving a small giggle, Tom shook her head. "What did I say about lying to me?"

"It's not a lie. She told me about a year back. I was just wondering what yours was."

Suddenly serious, she stopped picking at her bread and pursed her lips. Her story was a closely guarded secret that she had no intention of ever telling anyone. If anyone found out her history, they would know her cowardice. They turn her in to the authorities, and they would drag her back to Cyrodiil in chains – or worse yet, they would force her back into that terrible responsibility that had been thrust upon her. They would claim it was her destiny, dress her up like a hero, and set her off on her noble quest, and she inevitably would fail them like she had everyone else. It was better for everyone if she just remained a nameless stranger. If she laid low long enough, they would find another champion, a better one who was worth the glory and honor that came with the title.

Because of this, if Tom ever told anyone, she would have to trust them with her life. Brynjolf was a likeable enough man. It had been impossible to stay angry at him after her little fit that morning in the cistern. He had this charismatic air about him and a sly grin that could only match the charm of a fair-haired sailor she had known back in Cyrodiil. She had always been drawn to those who wielded cunning words like others would a sword, but almost all of them had led her into some less than savory situations. As charming as he was, Brynjolf seemed to be no exception. He toed the line between altruism and selfishness so much that it made it impossible to know if he was the perfect confidante or a master of manipulation, and she wondered if maybe he was both. Still, this man didn't have half her trust, and it took a lot more than that to hear her story.

"So Stormcloaks," she said, quickly changing the subject, "virtuous patriots fighting for their god and homeland or backwards hillfolk causing trouble for a racist, narcissistic murderer?"

"Great deflection lass," Brynjolf replied with a small chuckle. "I'm probably going to have to go with the second one."

"Really? You don't share your countrymen's steadfast belief in the will of Talos and _Skyrim is for the Nords_ and all that?"

"Bah, that's just intolerant dribble masquerading itself as patriotism. To be honest, lass, while I have no love for the Empire either, I just don't feel that strongly toward my homeland, and I definitely don't care who worships what made-up gods. I'm a thief, not a politician, not a soldier, and certainly not a priest. There will be a people to steal from no matter who wins this war, and that's all I care about. The politics of others don't concern me."

Tom took solace in his indifference. It was rare these days to find someone who didn't have a strong opinion on everything. The world had grown too noisy, too full of opinions and strife. Maybe this shared apathy made them heartless, but it was nice to know someone felt the same. Brynjolf leaned back in his chair and made a face.

"I just wish someone would take care of the damned dragons flying about. They're getting closer and closer to Riften, and that does concern me."

With that, her comfort was gone as quickly as it had come. Leaving what was left of her bread on the table, she picked up her pack and stood up quickly. Brynjolf watched her with a puzzled look on his brow.

"Where you going in such a hurry?"

"I have to get back to Vex and Delvin. I'll see you later."

Clearly still puzzled, Brynjolf let it go with a small shrug. "All right."

Tom headed out the door in a bit of a rush and made her way down to the Ratway. Once she reached The Ragged Flagon, she felt her nerves ease as she found Delvin and Vex drinking at the bar. Tom threw her pack on a nearby table, and the noise caught their attention. A familiar smirk on her lips, Vex turned around and leaned her slender body back against the bar, arching her spine like a cat.

"Look what the skeevers dragged in. You bring me something shiny, girl?"

Pulling a ruby out of the pack, Tom tossed it to the Imperial woman. Catching it with ease, Vex's eyes lit up as she inspected the beautiful gem. Her smirk fading, her face instantly went back to her usual apathy. She pocketed the ruby and handed the Breton girl the gold due.

"I'm starting to think you're not as useless as you look."

By this point, Tom knew that was the closest Vex gave to a compliment. She stuck the coin purse in her pack as Delvin sauntered over to the table. Before he could say anything, Tom handed him the ring she'd picked from a noblewoman's pocket.

"There's a good girl." Delvin smiled and looked to see that Vex was out of earshot. "Don't mind Vex. She's just as impressed as I am."

"I know."

"So you got a thrilling tale for me?"

Continuing to rummage through her trusty sack, she tilted her head in thought as she pocketed her lockpicks and stuck her dagger in her boot. Delvin's questioning eyes watching her, Tom started to clear off the table to make room for what she was about to show him.

"Not necessarily a tale, but I think Mercer will be able to appreciate some of the things I stumbled upon in Solitude."

Once the table was cleared, she emptied a good portion of the contents of the old, leather pack onto it and began to sort out the polished jewelry and shining gems. There were a couple jewel-encrusted circlets in silver and gold, an enchanted sapphire necklace that glowed a pretty shade of green, and a good amount of assorted rings that varied in worth from simple silver bands to a particularly beautiful, gold diamond ring. The gems as well ranged from some cheap garnets to a pair of flawless diamonds. Astounded by the sheer amount of it all, Delvin's mouth hung slightly open as he brought his hand to his face.

"Shit, Tom. Did you raid every house in Solitude?"

"Nope, just one."

"Tell me you didn't steal from the Blue Palace."

Shaking her head, Tom held back a smile at his astonishment. "No, no. Nothing that gutsy, but I'm certain the cousin of the Emperor will heighten her security after this."

The old Breton began to stammer as he spotted a certain piece of jewelry on the table. With trembling hands, he picked up the diamond ring on the table and scrambled wildly over to Vex. Uncertain what was the matter, Tom took a couple cautious steps forward as Delvin held the ring in front of Vex's unimpressed face.

"Delvin, I'm not marrying you."

Delvin scoffed. "Please, as if I'd want to marry your smart mouth. Do you know what this is?"

Frowning, Vex carefully picked the golden band out of his shaking hand and examined it with great scrutiny. "It's an engagement ring. What of it?"

"Do you know whose engagement ring?"

"No."

Suddenly aware of what she had stolen, Tom stumbled back a few steps and collapsed down onto a nearby chair. It had been one thing to steal from the Emperor's cousin. She had anticipated finding a good amount of valuables, but nothing this monumental. When she had been rummaging through Vittoria's safe, she had figured the ring was just another piece of jewelry. Vittoria would certainly have been wearing her own damn engagement ring.

"It's Vittoria Vici's engagement ring given to her by our own dear Asgeir Snow-Shod. Do you have any idea how much this is worth? I heard he had it specially made just for her and spared no expense for his blushing bride to be."

Snapping her hand shut around the ring, Vex jerked her head toward Tom. The Imperial woman's face remained as stony as ever, but her cold eyes were wide with shock. Her hand firmly clasped around her mouth, Tom tried to remember how to think. There were so many thoughts swimming around in her head, but none of them made any sense. Regaining her poise, Vex slowly stepped toward where Tom was sitting and eyed the table full of jewelry.

"Delvin, go find Tonilia. We'll be needing her for the rest of this."

Obediently, Delvin went off searching for the fence. As she approached Tom, Vex's hand still tightly held the ring as if she feared opening it in the slightest would result in it being lost forever.

"Call me crazy, but it turns out you might actually be useful after all – if only by dumb luck. I'll hold onto this. It's not just something we can just sell to Tonilia like any other garbage we bring down here, so I can't pay you now. I'm going to go through some contacts see if we can find a buyer, but when I do, you're going to be a very rich woman. Keep this shit up, and things might actually start to change around here."

. . .

The dark house was quiet save for a few quiet snores from the Nord man as he lay deep in slumber, facing away from his wife. They were a sad picture of a loveless marriage. Everyone in Riften knew their story and looked on them with pity. They had been in love once, a long time ago, but money had spoiled the wife and she grew greedy with age. Her husband, on the other hand, had a charitable soul, always freely giving coin to beggars on the street and the orphans down in Honorhall. This dissatisfied his wife, and she began to resent his giving nature. Her bitterness led her into the arms of other men. The husband knew about it too, but he still kept a smile on his face as he walked through the town, going about his business as if nothing were wrong. The worst part of it all was he still loved her. The thief always felt a tinge of guilt whenever a contract required him to steal from the miserable couple. The wife, Nivenor, was a terrible shrew of a woman, but even though the husband knew he was in with the Guild he loathed so much, Bolli always treated the thief with respect out of basic human decency.

Still, Vex didn't take kindly to others turning down her jobs and would most likely snap his neck if he simply refused to do it so he quietly snuck toward the bedside table on which a shiny, golden jeweled horn sat waiting for the thief to snatch it. As he crept closer to the table, he heard a quiet mumble escape the Bosmer woman's lips, and he held his breath in fear. When it became evident that she wasn't going to wake, he continued toward the target, more cautiously than before. Carefully, he grabbed the horn and stuck it in his bag along with the flagon and candlestick he had already stolen from the first floor. Sighing softly, he turned and headed quietly toward the stairs. As he snuck down the stairs, the wood creaked loudly under his foot, and he heard stirring coming from the bedroom. His heart racing, he jumped off the side of the stairs with only a quiet thud of his feet as he landed on the floor below and instantly threw himself into skillful roll toward the door. Quickly, he turned the knob quietly and slipped out before he was discovered.

Once outside, he caught his breath with the fresh night air of early spring. A patrolling guard passed by and he clung to the shadows outside the house. As the guard passed him by without so much as a glance in his direction, the thief stood up and sauntered through the back alleys of Riften toward the cemetery behind the Temple of Mara. Walking by Riftweald Manor, he waved flippantly to Vald as he stood with his arms crossed at the gate, resembling an angry watchdog. The Nord snorted at the thief's passing, but thief paid him no mind as he grinned and continued on his way. Before he turned toward the secret entrance, he spotted a strange sight out of his peripheral vision. A small figure sat atop the stone walls of the city with its back to him. Though all he could see was its silhouette, he could discern from the dim glow of the moonlight the figure's familiar, short black hair and thin frame, and he recognized it immediately.

"Is that you, kid?" he called out.

The figure turned her head toward the thief. He couldn't see her expression, but her voice sounded pleasantly surprised by his presence.

"Yeah."

"Why are you up there?"

"Needed some air."

"And just how did you _get_ up there?"

"Climbed. You should come up here. The view's beautiful."

Chuckling, the thief placed his hands on his hips and looked down. "I'm afraid I'm too old for that, girl."

"Says the man who taunted a bear."

With a slight nod of agreement, the Breton man thought it over and decided to throw all caution into the wind. He stepped toward the wall and placed his hands in the creases between the stone before looking up and calling back to the girl.

"I break my neck, and it's your fault."

"Deal."

Getting a proper footing, he began to scale the wall with great difficulty. He hadn't been lying when he said he was too old for this. Eventually, he managed to make it to the top after nearly losing his hold one too many times, and she held her hand out to him. Reluctantly, he took it, fearful that her small body wouldn't be able to support him and they would both go plummeting to the ground, but she turned out to be a bit stronger than she appeared as she pulled him on top of the wall. Breathless from the exertion, he sat down next to her, letting his legs dangle off the side of the stone wall, and he looked out over the horizon. She hadn't been kidding about the view. The bright stars were scattered across the black sky and twinkled in their little constellations. Above them, the nearly full moons dimly lit the forest that surrounded the city, and in the far distance, he could have sworn he saw the sky glow green.

Cynric turned his head back to Tom, who was gently smiling in perfect contentment as she looked out at the horizon. He hadn't seen her much in the past month. Since the hunting trip, she had been keeping herself busy working jobs and stealing priceless rings. Gods had that little stunt put every thief in the Guild to shame. After that, nearly everyone had started picking up more jobs just so they wouldn't look lazy and incompetent in comparison, but Tom didn't seem to have let the glory go to her head. In fact, modesty didn't even begin to cover how she had been handling it. She was downright embarrassed by the attention she'd been getting and seemed ill at ease whenever someone brought it up. There was a rumor going around that she was thinking of leaving, and he assumed that was the reason for her discomfort. He figured she didn't want to be the hero and then just disappear.

"Your husband was looking for you earlier," she told him. "Said something about you taking something – I don't know. He talks so much."

Grinning, Cynric pointed his finger at her. "Hey, let's get one thing straight. Niruin is not my husband. He's my wife."

"Noted."

"So where have you been all week?"

She rolled her eyes and bitterly muttered, "Markarth."

"Didn't go well, I take?"

"No, it was fine. I just hate that city. Too much corruption and Reachmen and mines and cannibals."

"Cannibals?" he repeated incredulously. It was wholly possible that this was another one of her strange little fictions, but she'd cut down on those ever since people stopped asking who she was.

"You really don't want to know."

His gaze turned toward the forest, and he scratched his jaw in thought. To be honest, he hated Markarth jobs as well, though he didn't have the same bizarre reasons. Knowing that the Cidhna Mine was waiting for him if he got caught was enough to send chills down his spine. Even though he knew he was good enough not to get caught, the terrible luck that followed the Guild as of late was hard to ignore. Plenty of Brynjolf's recruits before Tom had gotten themselves arrested, and even Vex was nearly sent to the dreaded Cidhna Mine itself about two years back after a particularly unfortunate mishap.

"I understand, I guess. Doing jobs in Markarth always keeps me on my toes. Always you know. Makes me shudder just thinking of that mine."

A confused look crossed her face before her eyes lit up in remembrance. "Oh, right. You have a thing about prisons, too."

"You ever spend time in a jail cell, kid?"

"Yeah, once. I don't know how you could make a career out of it."

"Well, I was never in there for more than a day or two. Never long enough to get the full flavor that comes from being stuck behind bars in some dungeon for three damn years with nothing to do but watch the guards smugly patrol by and listen to the other prisoners blather on and on about their supposed innocence or brag about who they had to kill to get in there. Then, every once in awhile the guards cart you out and beat on you for sport, but hey, at least that's a bit of a relief from the monotony, you know. I swear, looking back on it, it's a gods-damn miracle I came out with my sanity intact."

A distant look in her wild eyes, Tom nodded and bit her lip. Cynric considered asking her how long her sentence had been, but she would probably just deflect the question.

"So word is you're thinking of leaving."

"I didn't think Brynjolf would tell anyone."

"Eh, the way rumors travel 'round the Guild you'd think we were a band of old women knitting blankets and gossiping about the indecencies of the young folk these days."

Tom giggled slightly and put on her best old woman voice. "_Did'ja hear? Vex caught Delvin watchin' her change again._"

"_That's nothin'. I heard Tonilia and Brynjolf were caught doin' the deed in the trainin' room. Vekel the Man's gonna be right pissed when he finds out._"

"Wait, really?"

"You didn't know about that?"

"I don't keep up with the Guild gossip."

Cynric leaned back a bit, careful not to lose his balance. "I didn't either when I first joined up, but it becomes horribly entertaining after awhile, so long as it's not about you."

"Too late for that."

"Heh, true. You telling people things like that you were an Alik'r warrior and a priestess of Sanguine really didn't help you lay low." – He paused. – "So are you going to? Leave, I mean."

"I haven't decided yet."

"Can I ask why?"

It took her a second to reply. "It's so hard to stay in one place, especially one where I'm constantly surrounded by people."

That was a sentiment the Breton man was all too familiar with. It had been his entire personality in his younger years. Blinded by the stubbornness of youth, he had convinced himself other people would just tie him down, but as it always did, time had taught him the error of his ways. Tom didn't seem to be the cocky, self-assured type as he had been, but she was definitely on the same fruitless search for liberty, which unsurprising considering how much of his younger self he saw in her. Of course, he had never been as bizarre as she was, but there was something about her withdrawn nature that he could relate to.

"Want a piece of advice from an old man?"

"Sure."

"Stay. I know the idiots around these parts can be too much to handle sometimes, but it's better than being on your own. Trust me. I wasted too many years thinking I could take on the world. Total freedom's a pretty thought and all, but that's all it is, you know? An idea. You have to tie yourself to something or you're never going to make it in this world. You need people to back you up when things get hard."

Her mouth shut tight, Tom tilted her chin and rubbed the side of her brow. She sighed in defeat.

"I know. I know. It's just–"

"Boring as shit?"

"–Exhausting. Things have been going so well, but it's still so hard to believe that they'll continue going this way. What if the people I trust turn on me, or worse, leave?"

"Easy there, kid. No one's leaving any time soon. As for people turning on you, don't worry. Brynjolf and I got your back."

As he said that last sentence, he made a completely deadpan face as he softly punched his fist into his open palm in a mock threatening gesture. Tom smiled weakly and ran her hand through her hair. Cynric looked down at the ground beneath them, suddenly aware of how high up they were. He imagined Vex would be rather cross with him if he didn't get back to the Flagon soon. Getting up there had been a bit of a hassle, but going back down wouldn't be too difficult.

"Well, I need to get back to Vex. You coming?"

"Sure."

Carefully, the two Bretons began to descend down the wall. Once about eight feet from the ground, Cynric repelled himself from the stone and dropped to the ground with no more trouble than a slight twist in his ankle, which caused him to trip backwards and fall on his backside. Swearing quietly to himself, he brushed himself off and looked back up at Tom still clinging to the wall as she stared down at him with her eyes wide in shock.

"Are you completely mad?"

Standing up, he crossed his arms. "Just jump. It's not that far."

"Catch me?" There was a playful tone in her voice that he had not heard from her before, and he could have sworn he saw a smirk on her face.

"Fine."

Shrugging, Cynric uncrossed his arms and took a couple steps to about where he figured she would fall. Once he was in position, Tom let go of her hold on the stone and fell down toward him. Holding his arms out, he caught the tiny girl, who seemed honestly surprised by this judging by the dazed look on her face, and staggered a couple steps back to maintain his balance before set her down on the ground. Still impressed, Tom rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly.

"I was not expecting that to work."

"With your fat ass, I wasn't either."

After making a face at him, she started toward the stone tomb that housed the hidden entrance to the cistern. Grinning, he followed her down the ladder and into the Ratway below.

. . .

On the twenty-ninth of First Seed, the day had started out like any other. Delvin had risen from his slumber half past noon with a revolting taste in his mouth and a throbbing headache. He'd gotten himself dressed, checked out Sapphire as she bent over to lace up her shoe, and stumbled into the tavern. He sat down at his usual table and cleared a space for him to lay his head down while he waited for his hangover to pass. After a couple minutes, he heard Vex sat down next to him. She only ever paid any attention to him when he was in pain. She was such a cruel little temptress.

"Rough night, Del?"

He didn't bother to raise his head. Instead, he just muttered, "I think I'm dying."

"Whatever. A letter came for you earlier. Don't worry. I didn't read it."

Delvin listened as she scooted back her chair and walked off. He waited a couple more minutes before sitting up and staring at the folded parchment Vex had left on the table. Slumping forward, he propped his head up with his fist and used his free hand to drag the letter closer to him. It was of nicer material than the usual torn notes he recieved, and there was some fancy, wax seal keeping it shut. Either Astrid was moving up in the world or this wasn't from his usual contacts. Groaning, he opened up the letter. It took a couple seconds for the words to come into focus, and even once they did, Delvin couldn't believe his eyes. There was simply no way this was happening. He must have still been drunk or dreaming. He reread the letter about four times before he set it down with shaking hands. He then instantly picked it back up and read it for a sixth time.

_Delvin Mallory,_

_I have heard word that your organization is back on its feet and capable of fixing problems discreetly. I have also heard that one of your members – Tom, I believe the name was, though it could have been an alias – is rather skilled in handling such delicate matters. Regrettably, I have recently encountered a minor setback with a former business partner and have immediate need of your organization's services. If this Tom proves to be as talented as I've heard, I can easily foresee a long and lucrative partnership between us._

–_Erikur_

"Vex," he called out, "get Mercer. Get Mercer now."

Rolling her eyes, Vex sauntered out of the Flagon toward the cistern. She returned several minutes later with Mercer, whose face was slightly more agitated than usual.

"This better be good, Delvin. I'm a little busy at the moment."

Still stunned, Delvin simply handed Mercer the letter. As he read it, the guild master's furrowed brow slowly rose, and his eyes widened in astonishment. Over his shoulder, Vex read the note as well and pursed her lips, attempting to hide her emotions. Shaking his head, Mercer exhaled loudly and set the letter on the table. He distractedly patted Delvin on the shoulder as his lips formed an almost smile.

"Well, go find that girl of Brynjolf's and get her to Solitude as soon as possible."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Notes:<em> One: Tom, you are an irrational hypocrite, and I hate you. Two: I hate that moment when I'm writing a scene that's meant to set up a shared connection between two characters and establish a growing friendship and trust, and all I can think is "Oh, stop being cute and just get it on already." Then I have to remind myself that I'm not intending this to be a romance and I cannot write sloppy make-out scenes.


	5. Chapter Five: Honesty

Chapter Five: Honesty

"–She starts undressing me and chanting this bizarre incantation. Granted, I had consumed far more than my fair share of Rotmeth that night, so when she tells me '_Oh, it's just a little spell to heighten the mood_,' I naturally go along with it. She begins to take off her clothes, still whispering that chant, and pushes me down on the bed. I don't completely recall what happened next – and what I do remember doesn't make for polite conversation, but the next morning, I woke up in a stable in Greenheart dressed in nothing but my small clothes, my stolen goods vanished, and not a septim to my name. When I finally managed to get home, Meldor, the leader of the Crescents, nearly had a fit."

Four thieves sat around the table in the cistern, eating lunch and swapping stories of sexual escapades gone horribly wrong. More accurately, Rune, Niruin, and Vipir the Fleet were eating and talking. Tom absentmindedly rolled an apple back and forth between her hands as she listened to their tales with eager ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Vex walking in through the door on the other side of the room. Considering Vex rarely ever left the bar of The Ragged Flagon, the sight of her in the cistern piqued Tom's interest, and she watched the slender Imperial woman saunter over to Mercer's desk. The two spoke for awhile before they both headed back toward The Ragged Flagon together. Something important must have happened in order for Mercer to leave his desk willingly.

"And what about you, Tom?"

Rune's words had caught her off guard, and she whipped her head back around to face the others who were all looking at her intently. Leaning forward in a manner that made it evident he was pretending to be more interested than he actually was, Niruin held his chin up with his fingers.

"Oh, this should be fascinating."

"Come on, she's fifteen," Vipir replied, rolling his eyes. "She's probably a virgin."

Honestly, Tom didn't know what amused her more, his belief that she was that young or his belief that she had never went to bed with anyone. Both were as far from the truth as possible, and she debated whether or not to let him continue believing this false assumption.

"Actually," she spoke up. "I'm two-hundred and nine, and I've bedded at least two hundred men and twice as many women."

The three men stared at her for a moment as if they knew it couldn't possibly be true but her serious nature made them second guess themselves. That uncertain look people gave her when she lied had to be one of her favorite expressions in the world. Over the years, she had found that good lies were wasted on the people she would have to communicate with on a regular basis. Eventually, she would trip up, accidentally contradict herself, and they would demand the truth. On the other hand, if she kept feeding a person obvious lies, eventually that person would take the hint and stop asking about her background. Often, this led to people believing her to be even odder than she already was, but it was a necessary drawback.

"Virgin," Niruin and Vipir said in near perfect unison.

Leaning back, Rune shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I know you must have one, Vipir."

"Please," the elf interrupted, "Vipir lies worse than Tom."

"I do not."

"You do so."

Indignantly pouting, Vipir took a sip from the cup in front of him and tilted his head as he swallowed.

"Any way, I can't say I have any embarrassing stories. I generally do well in that area."

"You are such a liar."

As Vipir began to open his mouth in rebuttal, he caught sight of something in front of him and quickly shut his mouth, an uncharacteristically passive look crossing his face. All equally confused by his sudden meekness, the other three thieves looked over to see Mercer Frey heading towards them. Though he approached the table with unwavering resolution, he appeared to be less irritated than usual. Behind him, Delvin timidly followed on his heels like an obedient dog following its master. Even after the incident with the ring, she had never seen Delvin so flustered.

"Can we help you?" Niruin asked the guild master once he reached the table.

"Delvin and I need to speak with you, Tom."

His cold eyes fell on Tom. Though rough and irritable, Mercer had never given her any problems. He didn't possess Vex's apathy mixed with a hint of hostility, nor did he have Brynjolf's sly sociability that made him so impossible to trust. On the rare occasions that he spoke with her, he was always curt and to the point – no undertones of craftiness or loathing, just straightforward instructions. By this point, Tom knew what to expect from him, and still, she found herself anxious by his sudden interest in her. Suppressing her apprehension, she stood up from the table and timidly followed with the two Breton men away from the others.

"A new potential client has personally requested you help him out with a problem," Mercer explained, gruffly. "You will do exactly as he says, or you'll be out on your ass. Am I making myself clear?"

Tom nodded, and Mercer smiled. The smile on the old man's lips wasn't particularly happy or even friendly, but a small smirk of satisfaction as he eyed her over almost like he believed she could pull this off.

"Good, Good. Delvin, you can take it from here."

As the guild master began to walk back to his desk, Delvin crossed his arms and put his best business face on. Unlike Brynjolf, Vex, or Mercer who all acted the same when engaged in casual conversation as they did when they were talking business, the old Breton had two very distinct sides. There was the gruff and grizzled Delvin Mallory who gave jobs, and then there was daft, drunk Uncle Delvin who had a horrible gambling addiction and often made lewd comments at women. The latter made it near impossible to take the former seriously, but Tom still played along with her superior, pretending to be his subordinate, all the while knowing they would be later getting drinks in the Flagon together. Delvin briefly explained the job. There was a man in Solitude by the name of Erikur – Tom recognized the name as one of the thanes – who needed her assistance with a business transaction gone wrong.

"One more thing," Delvin said, "tell the elf he's going with you."

"Why?"

"No offense, Tom, but you're not the best when it comes to speaking with people. We want to leave a good impression on this stuffy noble, and Niruin's a lot better at – well, you know – not comin' off like a loon. You're to do whatever Erikur tells you alone, and I'm assigning the elf a numbers job to keep him occupied," – Delvin rifled through his pocket and handed her a wrinkled contract to give to Niruin. – "but I want him doin' all the talking. Also, we don't want to get anyone's hopes up, so this is on a need to know basis. Understand?"

"Got it."

"Just stick to the plan, and I'm sure everything will go perfectly."

As he said this, his business face faded, and a slight grin took hold of his lips. The old Breton man sauntered back to the tavern leaving Tom with nothing more than a crumpled note and an odd feeling in her gut. Her lips tight, she turned toward the table to see the others had been watching the entire conversation with curious eyes.

"What was that about?" Vipir asked as Tom approached the table.

"I'm going to Solitude and so is he."

Without another word, she handed the parchment over to Niruin. The Bosmer read over the contract and nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders.

"Child's play," he said. "Certainly Mercer personally pulled you aside to give you and me more than a simple contract."

"I'll tell you on the way."

The elf gave her a suspicious glance before his face went back to the usual apathetic demeanor of the thieves in the guild. Standing up with great poise, he held his hand against the table and leaned against it casually as he addressed the two Nords with a dramatic flair.

"Well, boys, I hate to leave, but it seems I'm needed elsewhere. I'm certain I will return with more thrilling tales."

Vipir snorted. "Don't get eaten by a bear."

"Ha, ha, aren't you so clever? Let's go, Tom. Best not to keep such important matters waiting."

Shooting Vipir a smug smirk, Niruin spun on his heel and headed off to his chest to pack his things for their trip as Tom followed suit. Tossing a bunch of lockpicks and her bow from her chest into her tired, old pack, she stuck her dagger into her boot and deemed herself ready for whatever this job could throw her way. Tom exited the sewers through cemetery entrance to see Niruin waiting for her with an enthusiastic grin on his face. Despite being a bit fussy and arrogant at times, there was an endearing quality to the Bosmer's willingness to go along with anything. He was the kind of person who would follow someone into Oblivion, not out of undying loyalty but instead to tell the tale. It was a driven passion she lacked and therefore respected in others.

The pair headed through the back alleys in order to avoid getting stuck in the swarms of shoppers that packed the marketplace. Tom had never seen the merchants so busy. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Brynjolf taking full advantage of this influx of potential customers, waving his counterfeit goods as he put on his act with as much bravado as he had the day she had joined the Guild, and she caught herself smiling at the conman's tricks. The cloudless spring sky above them, the two thieves slipped through the gates of the city out onto the open road. As Tom began to head down the road, she heard Niruin stop behind her. Turning to what was the matter, she saw the elf standing with his arms crossed and a skeptical smile on his lips.

"You aren't seriously considering walking the entire way to Solitude."

"I don't see why not," Tom replied. "We could always take a carriage if you're worried about time."

"And be cooped up in the back of a cart the entire journey? Where's your sense of adventure? No, we're taking a horse." – He nodded his head toward the stables. – "Come on, I have the coin."

Frowning, Tom looked at the ground. She did not want to ride a horse all the way to Solitude. There was a reason she travelled by foot most of the time. Curiously, Niruin tilted his head.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I don't like horses, okay?"

"You don't like horses? Who doesn't like horses?"

"I don't. They're giant and scary, and their eyes give me the creeps."

"You are by far the oddest little human I have ever come across, and that includes Delvin. Come on, Tom. I swear on my life, I will not let the horse trample you."

She mulled it over for a minute before sighing in resignation and following Niruin to the Riften stables. Outside the stables, the owner, Hofgrir, was nowhere in sight, but the stable hand, a young Redguard man named Shadr, was carrying a bale of hay out to the stables. He dropped it on the ground and wiped the sweat from his brow as he noticed the thieves' approach. A quick look of fear was quickly replaced by a light in his eyes as he recognized Tom and stood up straight.

"Aveline, it's nice to see you."

Tom felt Niruin giving her a sideways glance, and she caught him smirking, but he didn't say anything about the name.

"I'll handle this," she whispered to the elf.

Casually tilting his head, Niruin sauntered off to lean against the wood of the stables. Tom stepped toward Shadr and forced a friendly smile, knowing her grin probably looked as awkward as she felt. Conversation never came easily for her. It was always just uncomfortable pauses and stammered out words.

"How have you been?"

"Can't complain," he said cheerily, before eying over her armor as a frown quickly formed on his lips. "I didn't expect you of all people to fall in with the Guild. I don't know whether to be worried for you or trust that you'll keep them in check."

It had been months since Tom last felt shame for working for the Guild. The underhanded nature of their work was easily ignored when the thrill of the theft was coursing through her veins, and any time she did feel guilty for what she was doing, she told herself it was for the good of the Guild. Still, the disappointed look in the young man's eyes was far too much to shake off. Bashfully, she shrugged her shoulders as she tried to seem as casual as possible and made an empty promise.

"I'm keeping them in check. Don't you worry."

A small, trusting smile crossed his lips. "I'll hold you to that. Now, what can I do for you?"

"We need a horse."

Rubbing the back of his neck, Shadr looked around cautiously.

"Well, Hofgrir's out doing Arkay knows what, so I don't think he would mind much if I let someone on _important business for the Jarl_" – he winked at Tom – "borrow one of the horses, so long as that person promised to bring it back in one piece. Especially when that person has done me a great favor."

It took Tom a second to process what the stable hand was getting at before it hit her like a charging mammoth.

"Oh! Oh, thank you."

The boy smiled and fetched a horse from the stables. After handing Tom the reins, he bid her good day and continued on with his work. A beautiful shade of white and built for power, the horse was a massive thing, nothing like the sleek, slender horses of Cyrodiil. Its sheer size intimidated her, and she was struck by a strange fancy that the horse knew that. She walked it over to Niruin as she tried to repress the urge to tremble. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the creature wasn't going to be the death of her.

"Here's your damned horse."

"Thank you, _Aveline_," the Bosmer said as he took the reins and caressed the horse on the nose. "How could you not like horses? They're such magnificent creatures."

"I just don't. It doesn't matter. You've got it. Now, can we go?"

Gracefully hopping up on top of the beast, Niruin readjusted himself and held his hand out to help Tom climb up as well. Once she was on, he gently kicked his foot against the side of the horse, and they rode off down the path from Riften. The rest of the day, Tom spent listening to Niruin chatter on cheerfully about nothing in particular, not that she minded. His endless prattle certainly took her mind off of the fear that the horse would buck her off and trample her to death at any given moment. It also helped that the ride through the countryside was absolutely beautiful. The gentle warmth of spring had finally completely taken hold of the air, and the flowers on the trees were in full bloom. After she made mention of this, Niruin decided to stop for awhile and tied the reigns of the horse to a tree branch. He had an early dinner in the forest as Tom airily wandered through the woods picking flowers and chasing butterflies. An amused grin on his face, the elf watched her as she did this.

"You really are twelve, aren't you?" he asked in a way that sounded more like a statement.

Still distracted by the blue butterfly fluttering just out of her reach, she tilted her head and jumped up to catch it to no avail. Sighing, she laid herself down on the grass in front of him and snatched an apple from the satchel full of food sitting next to him. Taking a bite of it, she stared up at the brilliant blue sky. It was only in moments like these where she felt at peace with the world, these tiny breaks from reality where she could just marvel at all the splendid wonders of the Nirn and the nature around her. She could die happy if she could just stay there lying on the ground forever until ants ravaged her body and left nothing more than a skeleton.

"I'm thinking of taking up alchemy," she told him. "We need someone who knows more about potions than Delvin."

"Whatever you say, Tom."

"It's true."

A couple minutes later, they packed up and continued on their journey. The sun began to set just as the great walls of Whiterun came into sight. As the horse approached the city with a steady trot, a patrolling guard stopped and looked up at Tom. He took off his helmet and examined her curiously, as if he were trying to recall where he knew her from. Anxiously, Tom held onto Niruin tightly and buried her face into the crook of his neck to hide her identity from the guard. Immediately, she felt the muscles of the Bosmer's body tighten in discomfort.

"Not that I mind beautiful women nuzzling my neck, but I'm afraid I'm simply not into humans, dear."

"Shut up. I'm tired."

"You don't sound very tired."

"Fine," she whispered snappishly. "I have a bounty on my head in this hold, and I'd rather not spend a night in jail."

"Understood."

The elf dug his feet into the sides of the horse, and it quickened its pace. They rode on for a couple more hours before they stopped to make camp just outside the limits of Haafingar hold. Niruin dismounted the horse first and helped the young Breton down. After she tied up the horse, the Bosmer started up a small fire as Tom sat down next to him. Smirking mischievously, he opened up his pack and began to search through it.

"Look what I managed to swipe from the Flagon."

As he pulled out a bottle of wine, Tom shook her head. "Tell me that isn't Rotmeth."

"Oh, Y'ffre's grace, no. I gave up my Green Pact ways over a decade ago. This is just your run-of-the-mill, fermented from berries wine."

As soon as he finished speaking, Tom snatched it from his hand and took a swig. There was no drink in the world she preferred to a good wine. Unlike mead or ale which she drank only for the effect and never for the flavor, wine was something she enjoyed drinking, and it always left a warm feeling in her cheeks. The two of them sat around their campfire, laughing and passing the bottle as Niruin told her the story of a drunken fiasco that had occurred during his time with the Silver Crescents.

"–so we're hiding from the Igma, and after a couple minutes of silence, we peeked out and see he had left. Just when we deem ourselves safe, there's a high-pitched screech and Eragoth is suddenly tackled to the ground. I look down and see there's little Lenwen beating the life out of him, screaming '_I'm going to kill you! You bastard, you left me to die! I'll feast on your entrails!'_ So I reach out and pull her off of him, and in the struggle she kicks me in the – well, you know – manhood. Naturally, I collapse to the floor, but it gave Eragoth enough time to regain his poise. He shoots some calming spell at her, and she just goes all tranquil long enough for us to slip away back to the headquarters."

"And she didn't just try to kill him again when she got back?"

Niruin shrugged. "I don't know what Eragoth did. The next time I saw the two, they were all over each other like he never left her to die in a cave. He always did have a way with women. He was a lot like Vipir if Vipir's stories weren't, well, complete horseshit. I'll tell you something, though. I wasn't nearly as afraid of the Igma as I was Lenwen. That girl's wrath would put Vex to shame."

Laughing, Tom leaned back and finished off the last sip of the bottle. As she turned her attention back to Niruin, she caught the elf watching her with curious eyes. She tilted her chin and felt a bemused smile creeping on her lips.

"What?"

"Tell me something, Tom. I've been wondering about this for awhile, and you by no means have to answer this, but why all the deception when anyone asks you about yourself?"

"I thought it was obvious. My business is my business."

"No, no, I understand that, but with the others – Vex, Sapphire, Thrynn, even Cynric, at times – they just snap at people and refuse to speak a word. You, on the other hand, outright lie to everyone. I'm curious as to why you prefer this method of hiding your past."

Biting her lip, Tom looked over at the fire. "People like a challenge. If you don't say anything about yourself, they just get more curious and go snooping around for answers behind your back, but if you lie to them, they don't do that. If you're good enough, they accept it as truth."

"That sounds reasonable enough, but everyone knows you're lying."

"I usually only obviously lie to people I have to see regularly, but it works the same way. They brand you as 'strange' and figure they don't want to know your history. Oblivion's flames, sometimes they're afraid they might find out you're some bloodthirsty killer or something equally ridiculous."

"_Are_ you a bloodthirsty killer?"

"No. I mean, I've killed people before, but I don't – I don't enjoy it. I'm no assassin."

There was a long silence, and Tom quickly began to regret her drunken lapse of judgment. Anxiously, she began to pick at her lip as she thought it over. It sounded innocent enough. She never said murder. As far as Niruin knew, she could have killed a couple of bandits in self-defense. Though panic was beginning to take hold of her body, she knew she had to keep her composure or else she might show her hand. Then he would know her words weren't as innocent as they seemed.

"Why do you even care if I'm a liar?" she asked, changing the subject. "We're thieves. It's our job to be deceitful."

"Delvin once told me something surprisingly wise, considering it was Delvin saying it. He said, '_Elf, you don't have to be an honest person to do honest work. Being a merchant's honest work, right? Tell me how many merchants you've met who wouldn't swindle you out of your last septim if they could. It works the other way too. You don't always have to be dishonest to do our line of work. It's our job to lie and cheat and steal, but that don't mean we have to do it all the time._' I think there's some truth to that. Sure, we don't always keep our deceptive ways strictly to when we're on jobs. Vipir lies like a dog. Vex cheats at cards. Brynjolf would rather kiss Delvin on the mouth than admit we're in a rut. Just last week, Cynric stole my bow and hid it just so he could get more time to practice. We're all a little dishonest, but we aren't always like that. Sometimes, we assist each other even if there's nothing to gain from it. We get drunk and tell stories – sometimes they're even true stories. It's tiring to always keep up this façade of deception and backstabbing."

Rocking forward, he chuckled slightly and looked down at the ground. "I'm sorry for rambling. I'm a terrible lightweight. The others like to make fun of me for my low tolerance. I don't think any of that made sense, did it?"

The corners of Tom's mouth formed genuine smile, and she shook her head.

"No, it made perfect sense."

. . .

Furiously, Erikur began trudging through the halls of the palace in pursuit of the steward who had the audacity to slight him. He found the red-haired Nord outside his bedroom looking over some letters. As Erikur approached him, the steward looked up, and at the sight of the thane, he began rubbing his temples as if he suddenly had come down with a terrible headache. It was a common occurrence for the man. Every time the thane spoke with him, he was always holding his head, trying to alleviate the pain from the terrible migraines he seemed to be plagued with, but today Erikur had no pity for the steward's constant headaches. There was a matter of great injustice to be settled.

"Fire-Beard!"

"What is it, now?"

Storming over to him, Erikur held up a now crumpled letter in his shaking fist. He shoved it in the steward's face.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Weary-eyed and exasperated, Falk Fire-Beard took the letter from the thane's hand and read over it. Rolling his eyes, he handed it back to Erikur. Still, he kept his posture as calm as ever.

"I'm sorry your proposal didn't go through. I would tell you to take it up with Jarl Elisif, but she has enough to worry about without you pestering her."

"I know you were the one who vetoed my plan."

"Erikur, I have a lot to do today. I don't have time for this."

"You–"

The thane was cut off by a quiet cough. The two bickering men turned to see Erdi, one of the palace maids, cautiously approaching them. Erdi was a frail, little thing who had dreams of adventures she would never see and would tell anyone who would listen of these unattainable aspirations. Still, she was a pretty, young woman and was so infatuated with Erikur that she had to look away from him. Her fluttering eyes fell on Falk as she finally found the nerve to speak up.

"My thane, there's two visitors here to see you. They say you have business with them."

An irritated frown crossing his lips, Erikur crossed his arms and attempted to remember what this could possibly be about. Erdi would recognize all of his usual partners. Sighing, he waved his hand at the girl.

"Very well. I'll see what this about." He turned his attention to Falk. "This isn't over, Fire-Beard."

"It never is."

Grunting, Erikur followed the maid down to the entrance hall where the two strangers waited by the door to the palace. They wore matching leather armor with a familiar symbol embroidered on one of the straps, and Erikur immediately recognized them as members of the Thieves Guild. One was an elf, a Bosmer, who removed his cowl as the thane came down the stairs. The other, a fidgety, black-haired Breton of ambiguous gender, stood behind him running its fingers over a pot and eying a nearby palace guard suspiciously. Erikur reached out and stopped Erdi.

"You may go. I'll handle it from here."

The Nord girl nodded and headed back up the stairs. Erikur continued down the steps toward the two thieves. As he drew closer, he notice a slight curve in the Breton's tight armor identifying her as a woman, which meant the elf must have been the Tom he had sent for. Judging by the name, Erikur hadn't been expecting a Bosmer – perhaps Tom was short for Tomhelfin or something equally elf-like – and he had certainly not been expecting Delvin to send two of them. The thane's thoughts flickered to that old adage about cooks in kitchens, and he narrowed his eyes as he approached them.

"I only asked for one."

"Then it's good for you only one of us is going on the job," the elf said.

His voice held a charming drawl to it, and he held out his hand for the thane to shake. Ignoring the Bosmer's offer of courtesy, Erikur crossed his arms and skeptically inspected the elf. Maven's letter had said that the thief was surprisingly competent though a bit mouthy and skittish. The Bosmer didn't seem to fit the picture.

"You, Tom?"

"No, that's Tom." – The elf nodded his head towards the girl, who turned her wild eyed attention to Erikur. – "She doesn't speak much. Consider me a diplomat."

This had to be a joke, and Delvin Mallory had a poor sense of humor. The Breton girl could barely hold her own head up. Her arched-shoulder posture and twitching hands made her resemble more of a feral dog than a human. Even the elf seemed better suited for the job, and he looked only slightly more competent than she did. Still, Maven and Erikur were on good terms. There was no discernable reason for her to lie to him, and she had sworn that Tom was the most reliable thief the Guild had sent her in years.

"I heard Tom was Delvin's best," the thane said.

"Oh, she is. You would be amazed by what she has accomplished in the short time she's been with our organization."

"Hmph, that remains to be seen." He lowered his voice but held a stern tone. "Nothing raises my ire more than an agreement being broken. It's bad for business, and it wastes time. Captain Volf of the Dainty Sload has decided to test my patience by neglecting to honor a trade agreement we established."

"And you want Tom to take him out of business?"

"Precisely. Show him the error of his ways by sneaking on board his ship and planting some contraband."

"What kind of contraband?"

"I've heard Sabine Nytte of the Red Wave is in possession of some Balmora Blue. Once you get it from her, plant it in Volf's footlocker, and I'll take care of the rest."

"Balmora Blue, that's quite the offense," the Breton spoke up. Hinted with a Cyrodiilic accent, her voice was unexpectedly effeminate considering her boyish body. "Either you don't understand what you're dealing with or you never intend on doing business with this man again."

There was that mouth Maven had warned him of. As much as he didn't want to believe it, this was certainly the right person.

"Trust me, girl. I know exactly what I'm dealing with. I want the good captain to rot in jail for a very long time. Volf's ashore right now, and I want the authorities waiting for him when he gets back. Now go, I don't want to see either of you until the job's done."

. . .

Sabine Nytte, a rather stubborn Breton woman, had refused to give the two thieves the key to the stash without asking for a ridiculous sum of coin. Just as headstrong as the sailor, Tom had refused to pay the price and headed off the ship leaving Niruin to follow on her heels as he wondered if all Breton women were this irrationally pigheaded. As they reached the docks, Tom squinted her eyes down at the clear, blue sea below them. A bored expression on his face, the Bosmer leaned against the wooden rails next to her as Tom examined the docks with wild, cautious eyes.

"Now what do we do? She said she was the only person in Tamriel who could still get this."

"We do what we do best," Tom replied. "We take it."

Before the elf could even open his mouth, the Breton woman hopped over the side of the rails and diving into the waters below. Flabbergasted, Niruin sputtered for a couple seconds as his mind tried to process what had just occurred. Just as he began to consider jumping in after her, Tom resurfaced, gasping for air.

"Found it!" she called out to him quietly. "Meet me at the shore."

"Oh – Okay!"

Tom submerged herself back under the waters, and Niruin quickly made his way down the docks and sat down on the sands of the shore, biting his lip to contain his concern. Sometimes the girl reminded him a little too much of Cynric. They both played themselves off as cool and collected, and then when it was least expected, they would go and pull off some outrageous stunt like this. A couple minutes later, he spotted a head full of black hair, drenched and matted against a smiling face, emerge from the sea. Tom's tiny figure swam toward him, and he held his hand out to help her climb ashore. Breathing heavily, she collapsed down on the sand and rolled over onto her back. In her hand, she held a peculiar, blue bottle.

"Never thought I'd see this again," Tom said. Niruin raised a quizzical eyebrow at her, and her face went deadpan. "I used to be a terrible addict. Not a second went by when I wasn't swilling the old Blue. In fact, they used to call me Balmora Blanche."

"Didn't we just have a talk about this last night?"

"It's more fun this way."

Shaking his head, he sighed and looked at the ground. "Well, I suppose this is where we part ways?"

Sticking the bottle into her pocket, Tom looked up at the sky. It was late in the afternoon, and in a couple hours the sun would be setting over the horizon. She shook her head.

"I'd prefer to wait until nightfall to board the Dainty Sload. If I know sailors – and I do, they'll be too drunk by then to notice little me sneaking around." – She paused. – "You want to get dinner?"

"Sounds perfect."

The two headed back up the road to Solitude. Trailing slightly behind her, Niruin caught himself noticing the soft curves of her body. He hadn't been lying the previous day when he told her he wasn't attracted to human women. Having spent most of his life surrounded by other elves, something about their rounded ears threw him off. It looked almost unnatural. It baffled him how humans, especially Nords, placed such value on bulkiness. By most human standards of beauty, the men were supposed to be staggering brutes with more muscle than wit, and the women, large-breasted and thick-hipped. Personally, he had always preferred the slender bodies of elf women with their nice, angular features and small, gentle curves.

Tom had an elfish look about her, which was expected considering that the Breton people had a long history of breeding with elves. Her lithe body built for dexterity rather than power, and the way she held her strong shoulders had that same untamed ferocity of any elven huntress he had ever seen. Still, any attraction he had to her stopped at the aesthetic. There was simply no denying that the woman had a few bolts loose in that little head of hers, and he had learned the hard way that insane was a poor type to have. As they reached The Winking Skeever, she threw a devious glance at him over her shoulder and opened the door to the inn.

"Enjoying the view?"

Immediately the Bosmer snapped out of his trance and tilted his head slightly. "What?"

"Nothing."

They ordered some drinks and sat down at table in the corner far from anyone else. Tom pulled an apple from her pack, and Niruin raised his eyebrows at her in disbelief.

"Surely, that's not all you intend on eating."

"I like apples."

"I'm aware of this. It's essentially all you eat other than bread crumbs."

"My eating habits are none of your concern."

"It will be when you fall asleep on the job."

"I haven't passed out in weeks. Besides, I'm going to be on a ship. I could do this job drunk and blindfolded."

"Somebody's feeling gutsy."

Staring off into space, Tom simply shrugged in reply and took a bite from her apple. It was true. Ever since they had woken up that morning, Tom had been acting a little more confident than usual. Other than her initial shakiness while mounting the horse and her clear distrust of the palace guards, she hadn't been as anxious as she normally was and had been much more talkative. It was a refreshing change of pace, but the sudden change in her character still piqued his curiosity. Niruin took a sip of his drink and propped his chin up on his hand.

"So what's got you so chipper today?" he asked.

Caught off guard by his question, her head sank a bit sheepishly. Pursing her lips, she stared down at the table and mused over her reply.

"I don't know. I think I'm more comfortable with you than the others." – She locked eyes with him. – "You remind me of someone."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," she replied quietly, before quickly changing the subject. "So the maid at the palace totally wanted your cock."

Nearly choking on his drink, he had to hold in his laughter at the outlandish nature of her statement. As he regained his poise, he chuckled and leaned in, smirking. "Did she, now?"

"You didn't notice? She kept talking about gallant knights and asking if you were a knight. She wanted you."

"Ah, she wouldn't be the first poor soul to fall for my roguish charms."

"Right, roguish. Too bad for her you're _not into humans_."

Through her tone, the elf sensed some sort of sarcasm on her part. Inquisitive to what she was getting at, he tilted his head as Tom took a sip from her bottle, feigning innocence. Something had definitely gotten into her today. She was never this lighthearted.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, nothing. I mean, you were kind of obviously checking me out on the way back from the docks."

"I was not!"

"Then what were you doing that had your eyes so fixated on my backside?"

Caught, he held his hands up in mock surrender and chuckled. "Fine, you caught me. I didn't intend to – oh, how did you put it so eloquently? – check you out, but I'm curious."

"About what?"

"Are you full Breton?"

Taking a swig from her bottle, her face went to that serious expression she got every time she was about to lie.

"Funny you should ask. I'm not. My father was actually an Argonian pirate king. He used to send me little trinkets from the towns he plundered. Sometimes the gifts would still even have the blood of the townsfolk on them." – The Bosmer shot her a look, and she rolled her eyes. – "Right, honesty. The truth is – I don't know. All I know is my mother was a Breton, and she died before I was old enough to ask about him. For all I know, my father could very well be an Argonian pirate king."

The corners of mouth twitched, and her hand tightly gripped the bottle she was holding. Every muscle in her body went tense, but she didn't appear to be anxious. Instead, she seemed to be holding in this pent-up aggression. Tilting her chin, she looked off and took another sip of her bottle as she attempted to remain calm. Though she had been just as serious as she was when she lied, there was this air of vulnerability about her that made clear that she was telling the truth for once. He couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since she had told anyone about her history. His story was an open book. In Valenwood, everyone had known who he was so he never had any need to hide his identity, even after moving to Skyrim. Still, after spending so much of his time around thieves – a profession most people turned to out of desperation rather than adventure, he knew not everyone was as candid as he was about their past, and Tom was no exception.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the Bosmer said after a couple minutes of uncomfortable silence.

"Why? I'm not." Immediately realizing the harshness of her words, Tom shook her head and exhaled slowly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound so heartless. My mother was a good woman from what I understand. She went to temple, worked hard, and died too young. It's sad that she died but not because she was my mother. I don't feel any attachment to her. I barely even knew her."

"Still, it must have been difficult growing up without any parents."

"Really, it's fine. I don't even think about it. Some people have parents. Some don't. I'm not going to sit around crying because I didn't have the perfect childhood. I made my own family. So there, that's my tragic past. I'm a sad, little orphan girl. Happy?"

Niruin sensed there was much more to it, but he wasn't going to push her. He had upset her enough for one day. They ate in silence for awhile before he finally found the nerve to change the subject toward something happier. She enjoyed stories so he told her a little tale of a job gone wrong in Whiterun. Sure enough, a couple minutes later, Tom was smiling and giggling again, but as he told his tale, he noticed she suddenly wasn't paying attention to his story at all. With wild eyes, she was staring over his shoulder at something as she vaguely nodded and hummed at his words. He decided to test her.

"And then the sky opened up and Talos himself stepped down to the Nirn to proclaim me the new High King of Skyrim."

"Cool," Tom mumbled absentmindedly.

He snapped his fingers at her. "Tom!"

Flinching, the Breton girl broke out her trance as she locked eyes with the elf. Her body was abnormally tense even for her, and her brown eyes appeared to be more wide than usual. Still, she kept her lips shut tight like nothing was wrong.

"What?" she asked.

"What's going on?"

"I was listening to your story."

"No you weren't. Is something wrong?"

Her mouth twitched, and she lowered her voice. "There's an Argonian man over there – looking at us."

His brow furrowed in confusion, and he began to look over his shoulder before Tom reached over and gripped his wrist to stop him. He jerked his head back around to face her. There was a wild desperation in her eyes.

"No. Wait – Now you can look."

Quickly, he glanced over his shoulder at an Argonian drinking in the corner. The man seemed to be harmless, but there was something unshakably familiar about him. The Argonian turned his head back toward the two thieves and made brief eye-contact with the Bosmer, who immediately turned back to Tom.

"I believe seen him before." – He noticed her hand, still clasped tightly around his wrist, had begun to tremble in fear. – "Calm down, Tom. You're making a scene."

"I don't like it. We should go."

"Fine."

Whatever it was about the man had put her into a fit, and staying there would only make things worse. Taking a deep breath, Tom's released her hold on the elf's wrist as she looked up at him with gratitude in her wide eyes. They got up and headed out the door into the streets of Solitude. The sky above painted pink and gold with the dying light of sunset, Niruin leaned against the walls of the Winking Skeever as Tom paced back and forth trying to regain her bearings.

"You should go before it gets too dark," he told her. "Don't want you getting lost in the dark. I'll find something to occupy myself with until Angeline's Aromatics closes."

Sighing, Tom looked down at her boots. "Okay. I'll meet you back here when I'm done."

"Take care."

A small genuine smile crossed her lips, and she put on her cowl. "I will."

. . .

The ship creaked as the corsair drunkenly sang a song of Stros M'Kai to himself. In the shadows, the thief snuck down to the end of the hall, perfectly timing her muffled steps in sync with the natural flow and creaks of the boat, gently rocking like a baby's cradle. The ship smelt of an intoxicating mix of liquor and the salt of the sea as she peered around the corner of wooden wall. The footlocker sat there ready for her to slip the contraband into it, and she could be back home in Riften in a day and a half, but something stood in her way. The first mate sat in a chair, mug in hand, directly facing the chest. Even with her skills in stealth, she knew there was no possible way she would be able to get to the footlocker without being spotted by the Orc. Then, like a gift from the gods themselves, a bunch of laughter boomed from elsewhere and a gravelly voice called out.

"Murag! Get your ugly ass over here! You gots'ta see this!"

Grumbling, the First Mate stood up and began to head toward where the commotion was coming from. Tom held her breath as the sailor passed her by without so much as a glance. The ship rocked, and he stumbled a bit, giving Tom the perfect opportunity to slip over to the other side of the wall. Watching the first mate regain his bearings and head off, she darted to the footlocker and picked the lock. Inside were a couple jewels and a fair amount of coin, which she hastily pocketed before leaving only the bottle of Balmora Blue in the chest. The job was almost without a single setback. All she had to do was get off of the ship, find Niruin, and report back to Erikur. Quietly sighing in relief, she carefully shut the lid to the footlocker and imagined how nice her uncomfortably firm bed back in the cistern would feel once she returned to Riften.

Tom turned and snuck back down the hall, past the inebriated sailors cheering on one of their comrades as he performed poorly thought-out stunts, and out the door to the deck of the ship. As she stood up, she took a second to inhale the salty, night air. Nothing in the world felt quite like being near the ocean. She had spent a few nights admiring Lake Honrich from the docks, but it didn't have that same soothing embrace that came from listening to dull roar of the waves crashing endlessly into one another, nor did it have the same cool, gentle breeze of air – so thin that its thrall felt like it could asphyxiate a person if they stayed too long – that seemed to generate from the waters themselves. As it turned out, suffocation was the least of her worries as she heard the creak of the hinges behind her.

She spun around to see a man stumbling out from below the deck. A behemoth of a Nord, he reeked of ale and sweat, a stench Tom could smell from nearly a yard away. Stuck like a deer that had caught sight of a bow, she felt the blood pulsing through her body as he locked eyes with her. Her mind was ready to run, but her feet would not move. As bewildered as he was drunk, the man jerked back his shoulder to straighten himself up and pointed a sausage of a finger at her.

"Wait, you ain't s'posed ta be here."

Behind him, Tom noticed an empty wine bottle sitting on top a crate. He was far too drunk to be able to remember her by morning. If she could only get away from him without him sounding the alarm, she would be in the clear. Quick on her feet, she fell into the role of the delicate maiden and held her faint head with one hand. The other hand she held behind her back, summoning a faint green light at her fingertips. She swayed her body ever so slightly in mimicry of intoxication.

"I'm s-sorry," she said, slurring her words. "I – I must be lost. Had a pint too many – far too many, I fear."

"Shame. Ship's a bad place fer such a small woman t'get lost, but I figger we can make tha best uv'it."

Grinning, the man swaggered towards her. Even by the faint light of the moons, she could tell his teeth were yellow and rotting. Nevertheless, she kept up her charade. Forcing a grin, she stumbled over to him. She placed her hand on his shoulder as a green light emitted from her finger tips. His muscles relaxed, and he ran his hand through his greasy hair. Hastily, Tom slipped behind him. Snatching the bottle from the crate, she hid it behind her back before he swiveled around to face her.

"Did'ja feel that?"

"Feel what?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"I dunno, a'tually."

Then his hand grabbed her by the waist and pulled her closer to him. The stench of him was almost overwhelming. As he continued to advance on her, Tom instinctively gripped the bottle tightly and swung it through the air, shattering the glass against the side of his head. The sailor staggered to the ground, but to her horror, he didn't stay down. His eyes full of fury, he wiped the blood from his head and growled before lunging at the Breton. As he slammed her frail body against the side of the ship, his hands found her throat and gripped it tightly as he bent her back over the edge of the wall. The sea below readied itself for her corpse.

"You little harlot!"

Thrashing and kicking, Tom frantically tried to escape his clutches. She threw wild punches against his body. She kicked him in the shins. She squirmed and wriggled and tried to pull his hands off of her throat, but she was simply too weak to faze him. If anything the more she struggled, the harder he pressed against her throat, and her efforts to free herself rapidly weakened as the air was deprived from her lungs. Her dagger was in her boot, but she couldn't reach it. Desperate and dying, she felt hot tears well in her eyes. She was too weak, and she was going to die. It couldn't end here. Then, perhaps through the Divines' intervention, she remembered the night she met Brynjolf – how terrified she had been, how she struggled, how he had gotten the better of her.

In that instant, she found some strange semblance of strength. A fire roared inside of her that she didn't know was there. She had been certain that night with Brynjolf would be the end of her too, but it hadn't been. Neither had it been the end during the years on the run nor during fight in the snow nor the year spent in prison nor the executioner's ax at Helgen nor the battle against a dragon. No one in the Nirn knew how to survive better than she did. She had faced so much worse than this putrid sailor. She was not weak, and he would not be the death of her.

"_Fus_!"

A force burst from her lips and knocked the man back to the ground. It stunned him for only a second, but it was long enough for Tom to drop to her feet and pull out her dagger. As he made a second lunge for her, she jabbed the blade into the man's throat. The second she did, her eyes widened as she realized what she had done. Caught up in her fury, she had broken one of the only rules the Guild had. There had been no need to kill him. All she had to do was get away. Sputtering, the sailor stumbled forward a couple steps, and his large body fell forward. The lifeless corpse slammed against her causing them both to tumble over the edge of the ship and plummet into the waves below.

As she hit the water, a searing pain pulsed through her body. The cold waters filled her mouth, and once again she found herself without air. Holding her breath, she tried to fight the tide that was pulling her down, or maybe she was going back up. Disoriented and exhausted, she let her muscles relax and trusted that she would float back to the surface. Then there was air. She gasped and opened her eyes to catch a brief glimpse of the starry sky before a wave beat against her, sending back under. It continued like that for an eternity – surface, breathe, submerge – before she finally felt the comfort of sand against her face. As if in a dream, she crawled from the ocean and laid herself down on the shore, washed up like a seashell waiting for someone to find and take home.

. . .

In a sea-side city, miles away from Skyrim, an Imperial girl dressed in a fancy, blue dress with silver trimmings stood in front of an elegant mirror as she lined her eyes with charcoal. She was a pretty young woman with her tanned, olive skin unblemished and her curly, dark brown hair tied up with silver ribbons. Behind her, an equally young Breton woman dressed in tattered men's clothing sat on the bed, her impoverishment clashing the overall regality of the room. A bored expression on her face, the Breton laid her head down against a pillow and stared up at the ceiling as her friend cheerily told her of her betrothed.

"Oh, you simply must see him! He is _so_ handsome! We're to be married by the end of the month at the temple in the Imperial City, and Father has bought me the most gorgeous dress for the wedding. Just think of it. A Midyear wedding in the Imperial City when the flowers will be in bloom. Divines, it's all so romantic!"

The Breton attempted to stifle a yawn, but her friend still heard it. Spinning around, she crossed her arms and pouted a painted lip.

"You know you could at least pretend to be happy for me."

"I'm sorry, Lyra. I just don't see the romance in an arranged marriage."

The Imperial woman's lips tightened back into a smile as she turned back around to continue examining herself in the mirror. Sitting back up, the Breton girl ran her fingers through her unkempt, black hair, cut just below her jaw line. Pursing her lips in thought, she examined the frayed ends and thought about cutting it all off again. Long hair was such a chore.

"To be honest, I didn't care much for it either," Lyra said, "but then I met him, and he's just such a gentleman. I couldn't help but fall for him the instant I spoke to him. This really is going to be my happily ever after, Lucie."

The Breton's brow furrowed, and a stubborn frown crossed her lips. "Don't call me that."

"Then what would you rather me call you?"

"What you always call me."

"Oh, for the love of the Eight, I'm not calling you Lucky. It makes you sound like you're seven, and we're not children anymore. I'm getting married this month for Mara's sake!"

Still frowning, Lucie grumbled something derogatory about marriage under her breath and lay back down on the bed. Rolling her eyes, Lyra turned back around to face her old friend, now sulking like a scorned child. With a shake of her head, she sat down next to the tiny Breton. A maternal smile on her face, the Imperial woman reached out and stroked the girl's hair comfortingly.

"This is about Faerin, isn't it?" she asked.

"I just don't see why he had to move to Chorrol. You can raise a family here too, you know? You and I grew up here, and we turned out fine."

"I hate to break it to you, dear, but you're not the best example, and with my parents' wealth, I would be the same if I was raised anywhere. This city really isn't the best place to start a family. He's doing what's best for his future children."

"Yeah, well, I liked him being here. Besides, he's only thirty-five. That's like twelve in elf years, right? I don't see why everyone wants to get married all of a sudden. We have our whole lives ahead of us."

"Lucie–"

Sighing, the Breton sat up and picked at her lip in contemplation as Lyra leaned her head against her friend's shoulder. They sat in silence for a couple minutes.

"You're right," Lucie said. "You're always right. There, I admitted it. Happy?"

"Yes, I am. Now I won't have to make you eat your words whenever you and Caro decide to stop philandering about, admit that you're in love, and settle down."

The Breton scoffed at the thought and smirked deviously at her friend. "That's never going to happen. We're the best at philandering. Giving it up would be a waste of talent. Besides, we're not _in love_."

Standing up, Lyra rolled her eyes again and began moving her lips as if she was scolding her, but no words came out as if the Breton had suddenly gone deaf. Perplexed, Lucie tilted her head and strained herself to listen better as the room grew darker. Her heart pounding, she stood up and shook her friend by the shoulders, but the woman shattered at her touch like a vase knocked to the ground. The Breton let out a gasp and stared horrified at the fragmented shards lying in a pile on the ground. She could put her back together. Kneeling down, she took the pieces and stuck them together as a voice called out behind her.

"There you are, lass. I've been looking everywhere for you."

Relieved by the sound of a voice, Lucie spun around to see a red-haired Nord man standing a couple feet off from her. The room had disappeared, and all there seemed to be was them and darkness. At the sight of him, her relief quickly turned to sorrow, and she shook her head.

"No, you're not supposed to be here. Make it go back."

"Are you okay, lass? You look a little pale."

"No, no, no–"

Holding her head, she repeated the word over and over again until it lost any sort of meaning. She felt the man's hands on her shoulders, picking her up like a ragdoll. Tears running down her face, she looked into his blue eyes as he smiled and tilted her chin up with a gentle hand.

"You can't give up now. You have things to do."

"What?"

The world flickered by, and she found herself in the cistern's training room. There was a world-shattering roar from outside, and two men dressed in steel armor hacked their swords against hay dummies, practicing for battle. Brynjolf patted the girl on the back and pushed her towards a black haired Nord woman, who stood over a desk writing names onto a piece of parchment. An irritated scowl on her lips, she looked up from her desk.

"Next!"

"I have to go get my seat now," Brynjolf told the fearful Breton. "You can do this. I believe in you."

The world pulled her closer to the woman at the desk, who looked down at the girl with condescension in her cold eyes.

"And who are you supposed to be?" Maven asked.

A thousand names ran through the girl's head: Jeanne, Lucille, Aveline, Fish, Simone, Vivienne, Lucky, Aribeth, Reinette. None of those seemed to fit right. Stammering, she rubbed the back of her neck, attempting to remember her name.

"Tom. I'm Tom."

"And what kind of fighting name is that? No, you're the _Dovahkiin_ now. Now go get your armor. We haven't got all day."

The room spun around and two Nord soldiers stood in front of her, one dressed in red and gold armor and the other in blue and brown. The one in gold and red hastily clothed her in an ill-fitting set of armor that matched his own.

"You're a daughter of the Empire. Don't forget that."

Scowling, the one in blue and brown grabbed her by the shoulders, and at his touch, her armor changed to match his.

"And what has the Empire ever done for you? Thrown you in jail and nearly cut off your head, that's what they've done."

They continued to jerk her back and forth between them like two dogs fighting over a bone until she felt herself split down the middle. This was turning out to be the oddest day. The two soldiers stared at each other in horror and started to bicker over whose fault it was when a Breton man, his face obscured by a cowl, stepped forward and cleared his throat.

"Now, look what you've done. Is this any way to treat your champion?"

Sheepishly the two soldiers looked down at their respective halves of the Dovahkiin and sighed.

"No," they replied in unison.

"I didn't think so."

Taking the pieces of the girl from the men, Cynric sat her down in a corner and knelt down beside her. He pulled out some thread and began to stitch her back together. Once he finished, he patted her on the shoulder and looked her in the eye. Despite a small smile on his lips, there was sadness in his eyes. The Dovahkiin wondered what she had done to make him so sad. Outside the room, another monstrous roar came bellowing out, shaking the ground.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time, kid?" he asked.

"I don't know. What's going on? Why is everyone yelling?"

Frowning, he crossed his arms. "I'm not gonna lie to you, girl. They want you to fight a monster that has devoured many men much stronger than you."

"But I don't want to."

"Why? You got anything better to do?"

The Dovahkiin paused. "No. I just want to go home."

"No one's forcing you to do anything. Either fight the monster or go home. It's all up to you, but someone's got to kill that beast sometime and you're the one they want for the job."

"I don't think I'm ready yet. I'm not strong enough. I can't even put Lyra back together."

"Then let's get you out of here, Tom."

Smiling again, Cynric stood up and offered his hand out to help her up. As she took it, she heard someone calling her name.

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

The world around her went dark again, and he began to fade away. Still the voice kept calling for her.

"_Tom! There you are!"_

"What?"

Her voice felt strangled from her scratchy throat. Her body ached with a terrible pain, and she found herself unable to move or see. Someone knelt down next to her and shook her, which just made her feel even worse. Whimpering, she opened her eyes and the hazy face of an elf man hovered above her. Smiling, she reached up and touched it, dreamily.

"Faerin."

"Who?"

The face came into focus. It wasn't Faerin, and she wasn't in the training room or in the noble's house or the darkness. The sky was still quite dark above her, but the pale yellow light of the rising sun had just began to break over the eastern horizon. Tom was lying on a beach outside Solitude as Niruin knelt next to her, fretfully searching over her body for any wounds. Still aching, she sat up with great effort and held her throbbing head as she recalled the events that lead her to her current situation. She had finished the job. There had been a man. She had killed him. The crime settled uneasily in her gut. It had been self-defense, but she doubted Brynjolf would be pleased with her mistake. Forcing a smile, she looked over at the still panicking Bosmer.

"You nearly put me in a fit," the elf told her. "I've been searching for you all night. What happened?"

"It doesn't matter. We have to get back to Erikur."

Groaning, she got on her feet and inspected her surroundings. On some cliffs not too far off from where she stood, she could see the walls of Solitude and stone top of the palace, and she headed back toward the city. Niruin followed after her, scowling. She glanced over at him. Dark circles under his eyes, the elf appeared to be exhausted.

"Oh, right," he said. His voice dripped with sarcasm. "It doesn't matter. I just discovered you washed up on a beach, nearly drowned, and it's all _no big deal, Niruin! You're just overreacting! It's not as if you missed sleep to find my half-dead ass._"

"I'm fine. I just nearly drowned. That's all."

"I don't believe you fully comprehend the meaning of the word fine."

"I'll survive."

He threw his hands up in the air in animated defeat, and Tom chuckled at his frazzled behavior. As much as he didn't want to believe it, it was the truth. She would survive, but she knew that wasn't what he wanted to hear.

"Thank you for coming to find me."

Taken slightly aback, Niruin stopped and smiled. "It was no problem."

Laughing, Tom shook her head as the two continued on their path through the still dark woods back to Solitude. Her body frigid and sore, Tom, once again, found herself yearning for her bed in Riften. Unless bandits decided to attack them on their short journey to the city – an unfortunately probable possibility, this accursed job would all be over soon, and she could go home.

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><p><em>Author's Notes:<em> Bleh, this chapter – believe it or not, given that it's been over a week since I last updated – is very rushed. I've been out of town and I threw this together in the past two days. I promise better quality if you just stick with me. Thank you to all my readers for all the reviews and favorites. You guys are the best. (Even you guys who don't review.) Also: no Brynjolf in this chapter outside of a minor part in a dream sequence? This _is_ rushed.


	6. Chapter Six: Nature

_An Excuse from the Author: _So it's been a good couple months since I last updated this. There's the usual excuses for this: got a terrible case of writer's block after writing over fifty-thousand words of this goddamn story, got distracted by ME3 coming out, life got exponentially better, etc. Still the honest truth is, this chapter has been floating around on my laptop completely finished for about a month and a half now, but I thought it unfair to update with such a slow "nothing really happens" chapter after such a long time. However, I realized as I'm halfway into writing chapter seven that I keep putting this off and I'm just wasting time. So here's chapter six - finally. Chapter seven should be up within a week. Thanks for all the feedback. You guys are great.

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><p><span>Chapter Six: Nature<span>

Night fell upon Riften, and the marketplace deadened as the customers and shopkeepers alike went back to their homes or over to the inn for a drink. The week had been turning out to be an uncharacteristically busy one, and after a long day of conning people out of their well-deserved coin, Brynjolf wanted nothing more than to retire to The Ragged Flagon for a bottle, or four, of mead and the warm company of old friends. Running his hand through his hair, he sighed in exhaustion and began to pack up his counterfeit potions. As much as he hated to admit it, age was catching up to him, and it wouldn't be long before he spent his days like Delvin drinking in the tavern, doing paperwork, and handing out contracts. Brynjolf tried not to think about that. He still had some life in him. Besides, Delvin had more or less chosen to do that after being made a senior member of the Guild. He had made an excellent thief in his day, but he was always more of a business man than he let on.

Once he reached the cemetery, the Nord entered the mausoleum and pressed the Shadowmark button with his foot. The marble slowly slid back with a grating, mechanical buzz, and Brynjolf made a mental note to look into new options for a hidden entrance that didn't make such an irritating noise. As he climbed down the ladder into the cistern, he looked around to find it completely void of any signs of life. There was no thud of arrows hitting against targets or bickering or anything. Like something out of a nightmare, he half expected Vex to come stumbling out of a corner, riddled with arrows, telling him everyone had died before she took a final breath and fell lifeless on the floor. Swallowing his apprehension, he searched around the cistern – behind corners, in the training room, even stooping to look under a couple beds – for his fellow thieves. The isolation racking his nerves, he started toward the Flagon in hopes that there would be someone there to explain the emptiness. As he reached for the door, it flew open and revealed a loud roar of laughter and music coming from inside the tavern as two figures stumbled into the cistern.

Just as startled as he was, Sapphire and Rune stared up at Brynjolf and instantly untangled themselves from each other. Like two youths caught in an act of debauchery by the town priest, they held themselves at attention and vainly attempted to mask their inebriation. Finding his voice, Rune greeted the red-haired thief like a soldier addressing his superior.

"Brynjolf."

Brynjolf held his mouth tight to keep from giving away his shock. He nodded his head in acknowledgment. "Rune. Sapphire."

"We were just – uh. There was a, um – Tom and Niruin are back from Solitude!"

Rolling her eyes, Sapphire crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. "Can we go in?"

Despite the fact there was no possible way he could see this ending well, Brynjolf stepped past the two, and they hastily continued into the cistern, slamming the door behind them. Shaking his head, Brynjolf followed the sound of merriment down the hall and into the tavern. As he looked on the scene, he knew he had to be in a dream. Vipir the Fleet sat on a barstool playing a lute – a skill he had undoubtedly learned to impress a woman – as Vekel poured more mead into Cynric's cup. Leaning against the bar next to Vipir, Thrynn and Dirge were laughing as they watched Delvin inelegantly dancing with Tonilia, who smiled and laughed at the absurdity. Next to them, Niruin spun a near hysterical Tom around like a ragdoll. At a table in the corner, Vex and Mercer sat drinking from bottles, much calmer than the rest but still smiling and enjoying the celebration. Brynjolf hadn't seen the Guild in such high spirits in years.

"Mallory!" Vekel barked, but his demeanor remained cheerful. "Hands where I can see them!"

A sly smile on her dark lips, Tonilia broke away from Delvin and darted to the bar, knocking a puzzled Cynric Endell out of the way. She wrapped her arms around Vekel's neck and planted a passionate kiss on his lips. Disoriented by the sudden lack of a partner, Delvin swaggered a bit, and as he readjusted himself, his dark eyes fell on Brynjolf. An excited grin on his lips, the old man called out to his friend over the noise of the tavern.

"Bryn! There you are!"

Behind him, Tom looked over at Brynjolf and smiled as she continued to dance with the Bosmer. Scurrying over to Brynjolf, Delvin slapped the Nord on the shoulder and held out his hands in a wide gesture.

"That girl a' yours, I swear. Didn't think she could do it, but she did it!"

"What in the Nine Holds is going on here, Del? Have you all gone mad?"

With incredulous eyes, the drunken Breton stared up at him. "Didn't anybody tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"'Bout the job. The elf and that girl of yours went to Solitude to do business with a potential client. We got a foot in the city now! We're movin' up in the world."

Wide-eyed at the revelation, Brynjolf's eyes found Tom again. He watched the girl spin across the floor of the tavern with Niruin. Her face full of unadulterated bliss, she seemed so far from the distrustful, shifty shadow of a person he had met only months ago, and without a doubt, she would transform right back into that same person by morning. Nevertheless, tonight, she was cheerfully enjoying her victory, and Brynjolf felt a warm sense of parental pride for her accomplishment. Following Delvin back to the table where Mercer and Vex were sitting, Brynjolf pulled up a chair and sat down next to Vex. As Delvin picked an empty glass off the table and headed over to the bar, Vex's eyes flickered over to Brynjolf.

"I got to hand it to you, Bryn," she said. "This one turned out to be half-competent."

"Why, Vex. Did I just hear you give someone a compliment? It really is the end of times."

Smirking, she leaned back in her chair and pointed a finger at him. "Don't push it."

"So why was I the last to know about this new client?"

"To keep from getting anyone's hopes up," Mercer answered, "it was on a need-to-know basis."

Brynjolf frowned. "And I didn't need to know?"

"Please, Bryn," Vex replied. "If anyone was going to be crushed if the job fell through, it was going to be you. Besides, it all worked out, didn't it?"

"I still would appreciate being in the know."

Frowning, Mercer rubbed his eyes. "Relax, Brynjolf. Have a drink. Let your hair down. It's a celebration for Mara's sake. Divines know we're overdue for a little fun."

There were rules to the Guild – business related things like "don't kill people on jobs" and "don't steal anything of importance from fellow Guild members" – that were told to new recruits on their first day, but there were also some unspoken laws. These unofficial Guild rules were more guidelines to harmonious living or, in some cases, continued living. These were things that could be learned only from experience, such as: "never stand between an angry Vex and the object of her hatred," "attempting to bed Ingun Black-Briar is highly frowned upon," and "bringing flame atronachs into the cistern is not a clever joke." With the exception of the last one, which had ended with an expulsion from the guild and a vow never to let that happen again, almost all of these rules had been broken at least once after being made. Still there was one universally understood law that if Mercer Frey told a person to lighten up, then that person was taking things far too seriously. Immediately, Brynjolf let the subject slide and relaxed in his seat. Vex, on the other hand, sat up and tilted her head.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I have fun all the time."

With weary eyes, Mercer glanced over at her. "I meant fun that doesn't involve taunting Delvin and pushing the elf into Lake Honrich."

"That was one time."

"Twice," Brynjolf corrected, dryly. "Three times if you count the time you did it to Vipir."

"Vipir started that."

Mercer simply rolled his eyes and took a sip from his bottle, but he still held a rare air of lightheartedness. Brynjolf had missed this side of the old guild master. Too often these days, Mercer kept to himself, and he scowled so much that it had gotten to the point where a lack of frown was considered a smile. Granted, Mercer had always been a headstrong bastard, but back in the day, he more resembled Vex than his current state of perpetual exhaustion and irritation. Brynjolf smiled to himself as Delvin returned to the table with two glasses full of mead and set one down in front of the Nord.

As the night went on and the others danced and partied themselves into oblivion, the four of them sat at their table drinking and reminiscing over old times. Though Vex had not been around for most of the stories, she still listened and laughed at the older member's former exploits, especially when the story was at Delvin's expense. Mercer and Delvin even went as so far to tell a couple tales of the days before Brynjolf joined the Guild, when they were much younger and even less sensible than they were now. Eventually, Vex decided to retire for the night, and Delvin wandered off to go speak with others, leaving only Mercer and Brynjolf at the table. Sighing, Mercer took a sip from his bottle, and Brynjolf noticed the muscles of his mouth twitch as if he were mulling over something.

"Something wrong?" Brynjolf asked.

"I got something I need to talk to you about that you're not going to like."

Brynjolf couldn't tell if the guild master was simply being ominous and dramatic or if he actually had bad news. It could go either way with Mercer.

"Oh?"

"Over the past few weeks, I've been working on this little _project_ – that could potentially bring in more than a good amount of coin. Now before you ask, it's top-secret. When I get all the details down, this will be the biggest theft yet – something that would put the Grey Fox to shame. Now you understand that with something this monumental, I can't risk letting the plans get out. So I'd prefer it if you don't mention this to anyone."

"Understood," Brynjolf replied, "but I don't see how that's something I wouldn't like."

"The thing is, business has been picking up ever since you brought that girl in. I'll admit it. I doubted you at first. I thought this was one of the worst strays you took in, but she's a real find, Bryn, and you should be proud of that. However, I imagine life down here is going to get a lot busier, and with the amount of attention this project requires, I'm going to need you down here, focusing more on your duties as Guild second."

Brynjolf stifled a groan. The dreary life of paperwork had finally caught up with him, and he wasn't the least bit pleased with it. It wasn't about his little stall in the marketplace. He didn't particularly enjoy the job and had only been doing it because the Guild had sunk so low and desperately needed the coin. Still, it had been something. It hadn't been sitting around in the cistern, pushing a quill across parchment, and doing busywork. It had been working with people and sizing up his targets. As inane as his stand had been, it had been at least somewhat of a challenge, a test of his abilities. Nevertheless, he held his tongue and shifted in his seat, telling himself it was for the good of the Guild. Mercer noticed his subordinate's unease, and a gruff look returned to his face.

"Brynjolf, this is what you signed up for when I made you Guild second. It's your duty to manage the day-to-day things. Once this project is finished, you can go back to conning farmers out of their septims or threatening merchants for coin or whatever it is your doing now. I don't care what you do then, but right now, I need you down here. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good." – His demeanor relaxing again, the guild master stood up. – "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work. Don't sulk too much. It's unbecoming of you."

Almost chuckling, Brynjolf looked up at the old Breton. "Don't worry. I won't."

After Mercer left, Brynjolf continued drinking, now alone and in silence, as the tavern around him continued reveling in their victory. Several cups of mead later, the sound of hands slamming against the wood of the table pulled Brynjolf out of his thoughts. Her face lit up with a small grin, Tom stood over on the other side of the table as Brynjolf looked up at her. He must have appeared downright miserable because at the sight of his face, Tom tilted her head and her smile faded into a small pout. As drunk as a sailor on shore leave, her words slurred together as she spoke.

"Why the long face?"

At once, Brynjolf put on a smile. "It's nothing, lass. How much have you had to drink?"

"Not going to lie. I might get sick in the tunnels at some point tonight, but I'll be _fine_."

"I hear you're the reason for this little celebration. Good job. I'm proud of you."

Smiling, Tom brushed her short, dark hair out of her face. Though still shorter than most women's, her hair had grown noticeably longer in the past couple months from the short crop she had when he had first met her. A lot of things about her had changed since he met her in The Bee and Barb.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"It's the end of the month, lass. You still thinking about leaving?"

"No. I think I'm going to stay. This place – I think I'm beginning to understand the whole family thing you keep talking about."

"I'm glad to hear that."

There was a silence. Looking for words, Tom rubbed her shoulder awkwardly. Brynjolf noticed dark bruises encircling the girl's neck, the kind that only came from hands being pressed against the throat, choking the victim until they lost consciousness or worse. He debated asking who had nearly strangled the life out of her, but the day Tom told the truth would be the day he made an honest coin.

"Did you want to speak with me about something?"

"Right," Tom said, almost laughing at her absentmindedness. "Came over here for a reason. Some of the others are putting together a game of cards. You want to join in?"

Brynjolf nodded. "Aye, I think I will."

. . .

"It ain't my fault they sound the same!"

"Then maybe you should do a little more research before you waste my time again."

Standing at the bar of The Ragged Flagon, Vex and Delvin were locked in the middle of yet another argument. Despite his defensiveness, which nothing more than a part of the dance, Delvin didn't really mind these fights so long as Vex didn't hit him. The girl could throw a punch twice as hard as any man Delvin had ever met, and Delvin had gotten into his fair share of brawls. Still, when Vex got angry, her body pulsed with this raw, unbridled energy, which caused his mind to wander off and imagine how passionate and ferocious she must be in the bedroom. It created this overwhelming sexual tension that just wound up every inch of his body, and one day, Delvin just knew she would feel it as well. She had a saucy fire in her like no woman he'd ever seen, and there were few men Delvin wouldn't kill to get even the slightest taste of it. He didn't even want to tame the wild cat. He just wanted to fight it, one round with the lioness. Vex shook her head and spat on the ground.

"You fucking pig."

A hard smack across the face snapped Delvin out of his fantasies and left a burning sensation in his left cheek. Rubbing his injury, he stared up at Vex with his mouth hanging slightly agape.

"What the shit was that for?"

"I don't know, Del. Maybe because I was berating you for your poor business sense, and you were staring at my chest?"

"Was not!"

A familiar snicker came from behind the two, and Vex spun around turning her attention, and her anger, elsewhere. Lounging back in a wooden chair not far off, an infuriatingly smug smirk sitting comfortably on his lips, Cynric Endell held his hands up, caught, and slyly grinned as he leaned forward in his seat. Delvin wondered how long the man had been there and just how much he had overheard.

"Oh, don't let me interrupt. Please, continue."

Lazily leaning back against the wood of the bar, Vex arched her spine and lifted her chin ever so slightly so she could glare down her nose at Cynric. The tension in muscles eased up, but the hate in her cold eyes remained as she shot him a condescending smirk. Sighing, Delvin prepared himself for the inevitable headache that would soon be plaguing his ears. Along with being a colossal cock-tease and a tremendous bitch, lording her status as Guild third over Cynric had to be one of Vex's favorite hobbies guessing by the way she managed to bring it up every single time the two were in the same room. It wouldn't be that much of a pain in the ass if Cynric could just take her insults like everyone else did and wasn't such a smarmy bastard about it, but no, he would talk back, and to be honest, Delvin wasn't quite interested in listening to Vex yell at other people.

"Well, well, well. Look who's managed to drag his sorry ass back to Riften. Heard Whiterun's all on edge after a thief broke into Jorrvaskr. Tell me something. Did Hulda happen to wander into the place with the ring on her, or are you completely mad?"

"They didn't catch me. I got your ring and some pretty trinkets for Tonilia. Did I forget something?"

Jumping to his feet, Cynric took a couple steps towards Vex and crossed his arms. His lips still held a smirk, but the rest of him appeared as indifferent as ever. Even if he came out of this argument the victor, which he almost always did so long as Vex didn't break his nose again, it still wouldn't change a damn thing about him. Dreadfully distant and self-assured, nothing ever seemed to intimidate or sway Cynric, especially not Vex, who equaled him in arrogance but lacked his emotional control. The Imperial woman wrinkled her nose at his approach.

"I suppose you didn't, but if some lumbering brute turns up on our doorstep looking for his stolen goods, don't think I won't hesitate to turn you over to him."

"I've got a better idea," Cynric replied. "How about you sleep with him and call the whole thing even. Lumbering brute is your type, isn't it?"

Her pupils dilated with a strange enticement, Vex stared wildly at him as her lips curled into a tight sneer. "You're insufferable."

"Now, what's that saying about pots and kettles?"

"Just give me the ring."

Pulling the silver band from his pocket, he tossed it over to her, and she effortlessly snatched it out of the air with one hand. Eying it over, she puckered her lips before shrugging her shoulders and shoving the ring in her pocket.

"You know it's funny." – Here it came. There were things in the world that were simply part of the natural order: birds flew, grass grew, and Vex played the "_I'm your superior_" card. – "You'd think since you've been here longer, you would be the one giving me jobs."

"You know what I find funny? You butchering a job that a fresh-faced recruit handled without so much as hair out of place."

Her hands balling into fists and her nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge, Vex took a couple heavy steps toward Cynric, and just when Delvin was convinced that the man was about to get his nose broken again, Vex exhaled and shoved a coin purse into Cynric's hand. Without another word, she pivoted on her heel and stormed off. Delvin felt a surge of relief that their little tiff hadn't escalated as far as it could have. As she left, Vex shoved past Brynjolf, who had just entered into the tavern. Shaking his head, Brynjolf crossed his arms and patiently waited for the sound of the door to the cistern slamming shut before he spoke.

"All right. Which one of you milk-drinkers had the bright idea of pissing off Vex?"

Though he had enough courtesy in him to at least ask before he made any accusations, Brynjolf's weary eyes instinctively fell on Delvin. Still, the implication was downright insulting. Every single time Vex had something stuck up her ass, the blame immediately fell on Delvin. Sure, most of the time it was kind of, sort of, a little bit his fault. Frowning, Delvin shook his head and gestured wildly with his hands.

"No, no. Don't look at me like that, Bryn. I didn't do nothin'. Spriggan-Lover over here's the one who brought up Goldenglow."

"You were the one who got her all wound up in the first place."

"I'll wind you up, Endell."

Rubbing his temples, Brynjolf sighed and raised his hand, silencing the both of them. With nothing more than casual shrug of his shoulders, Cynric went off to find Tonilia, leaving Delvin to deal with a ragged and exhausted Brynjolf alone. The corners of the Nord's mouth were pulled down into an exasperated frown, and dark, heavy circles lined his eyes from lack of sleep. Delvin felt a pang of guilt for adding to his friend's stress. Over the past week, Delvin had noticed that Brynjolf had been smiling less and less as he tried to manage the Guild mostly on his own, and as the days went on, the red-headed Nord had started to resemble Mercer more and more. Though he still respected the old guild master, Delvin had already watched one of his old friends have the life drained out of him by having to deal with all the pressures that came from running the dying Guild, and he wasn't about to let it happen again.

"No offense, Bryn, but you look like shit."

A feeble smile crossed the Nord's lips as he rubbed his eyes. "I hadn't noticed."

"Here, let me buy you a drink. You look like you could use one."

"Just one. I got important things to do."

"I'm sure you do. – Vekel!"

As Delvin called out for the bartender, Brynjolf hopped up onto a barstool and held his head as he sighed again. Seeing Brynjolf, a man marked by his inability to grant himself more emotions than gruff apathy and cheerful wit, so openly despondent was rather unsettling. As Delvin hopped up on the barstool next to Brynjolf, Vekel the Man emerged from the storage room with a couple flagons in hand. A giant grin lit up his face as he strolled over to his usual spot behind the bar.

"You called?"

"Two meads, on me."

"Coming right up." His gaze turned to the sighing Nord, and a worried frown crossed his lips. "You doing all right, Brynjolf?"

At once, Brynjolf put on a lively front and forced himself to smile. Part of Delvin was comforted by the fact that Brynjolf was now at least feigning cheerfulness. He was used to Brynjolf hiding his emotions away like a dog burying a bone. The familiar, no matter how frustrating, always felt more comfortable than the unknown. The other part of Delvin, however, wanted to smack the man upside the head for being such a stubborn, old fool – and yes, he recognized the irony of that desire.

"I'll be fine," Brynjolf replied. "Bit of a rough day, you know."

Unconvinced, Vekel pulled two mugs from under the bar and set them down in front of Brynjolf and Delvin, but he didn't press the subject. After the bartender poured their drinks, Delvin turned his attention to Brynjolf and held his chin up on his hand in a concerned gesture.

"Now, tell ol' Delvin what's been troublin' you?"

"It's nothing."

"Horseshit."

"Fine. With the news that we have influence in Solitude, Honey-Hand's got the city riled up again, saying if they don't act now we'll_ soon infest all of Skyrim and all hope will be lost for the honest trader_ and what have you. Normally, I'd simply pay him a visit and remind him of the consequences of breaking our little agreement, but I'm supposed to be leaving for Solitude today to discuss business with some merchants who haven't taken kindly to the new management. I've been trying to find Thrynn for the past hour so he can handle it and I can get on my way. You don't happen to know where he is?"

"Yeah, Mercer's got him straightening out a couple deadbeats down at the Black-Briar Meadery in Whiterun for Maven. He should be back by tonight."

"Shit, tell me Sapphire's at least here."

"Sorry, Bryn. She's in Windhelm retrievin' some priceless gem for Vex."

"Vipir?"

"Markarth."

"You have got to be shitting me."

"'Fraid not." Delvin pursed his lips and patted Brynjolf on the shoulder. "Tell you what. I'll handle the Bersi situation, and you get yourself to Solitude. Hell, stay an extra day if you want. Vex and I are more than capable of picking up the extra slack. Ain't like anything's changed that much. I don't see why Mercer's got you down here."

"Well, he does."

There was a moment of silence as Brynjolf finished off his drink. With a heavy hand, he slammed the glass down and heaved yet another sigh. Just as he said he would, Brynjolf didn't stay for another drink. Instead, he stood up and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.

"I didn't mean to be curt with you. I just – never mind. It's not important. I'm sorry. Thank you, for everything."

"Don't worry about it."

Brynjolf's lips curled into a genuine smile. "Well if you'll excuse me, I've got to go pack. I'll be back in a week, tops. You know the drill. Write down any expenses in the ledger, get someone to deal with Bersi, don't let the Flagon catch on fire, keep Vipir away from Sapphire – oh! And I was supposed to meet with Maven on Tirdas. Do me a favor and send someone else on that. She doesn't like anyone, but she especially doesn't like you."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Now go."

As Delvin waved him off, Brynjolf turned and left for the cistern in a haste. _Don't let the Flagon catch on fire_. It had only happened once, and it hadn't been preventable or in any way foreseeable. Sometimes Delvin wondered just how seriously Brynjolf took him. Shaking his head, he ordered another drink from Vekel.

Down in the sewers, time often slipped by without notice. The scarcity of natural light made it hard to judge how many hours had passed from one event to the other, and because of this, it disconnected the denizens of the Ratway even further from the proper folk up topside. The only way to keep track of time was by habits. Delvin mostly woke up around midday and fell asleep a couple hours before sunrise. The time between that was a stream of events that flowed without any sense of minutes or hours. Since the Guild was nocturnal by nature, the thieves would flood into The Ragged Flagon around sunset, usually setting up a game of cards or dice or anything else that involved gambling away their gold. They would have couple drinks, lose a bit of coin, and occasionally pick up contracts from Vex and Delvin before they left to terrorize the good people of Riften with petty larceny and drunken escapades.

That night was no exception. Vex and Cynric had put aside their earlier hostilities and now sat at a table, playing cards with Rune and Tonilia, as they made half-teasing, half-genuine jabs at each other. Tom and Niruin were having drinks at the bar. They were an odd pairing, he with his constant chatter and she with her lips shut tighter than a priestess's legs, yet the two had become near inseparable since Solitude. The nature of their relationship was anyone's guess, though the elf insisted it was strictly platonic. When asked, Tom didn't say much on the matter, but Tom didn't say much on anything. Behind the bar, Vekel tidied up and kept the drinks coming. Everything was as it had always been.

On the outside, this was simply another night in The Ragged Flagon, but, despite the familiar scene, something still felt out of place. It didn't necessarily feel wrong, just different. It had been like this since Tom and Niruin returned from Solitude. After the initial celebration, which had been a rare night of uninhibited joy as the guild members put aside all pretenses of how they were supposed to act and simply enjoyed themselves, things had quickly died down as the thieves returned to the natural order of life in the Ratway, but the spirit of that night lingered in the air. Without a doubt, a change was coming for the Guild, and with the way their luck had been going, it had to be a good thing. Delvin knew he should dismiss these feelings as wishful thinking. If Tom turned out like all the other strays Brynjolf had brought back over the years, it wouldn't be the first time a promising recruit had pulled off an impressive feat only for them to fail later and everything return to the way it had been. Nonetheless, he still held hope in his heart that their curse had finally been broken, even if it meant setting himself up for disappointment.

Once Thrynn finally got back from his assignment at the meadery, Delvin intercepted the former bandit on his way back to the bar. They were discussing how to discourage Bersi Honey-Hand's little revolution when the sounds of the tavern suddenly died down and Vex's lone voice called out to the old man.

"Del, we got a visitor."

It wasn't often they got visitors. Brynjolf must have forgotten to mention this one before he left. A puzzled frown forming on his lips, Delvin peeked over Thrynn's shoulder to see a Bosmer heading toward the tavern with such a proud stride one would think he owned every stone in the place. All eyes were on the elf as he strolled up to the bar and ordered a drink from Vekel the Man. Poised and undisturbed by the thieves' distrustful stares, the elf held an air of confidence as he sipped his drink and looked around as if he were waiting for someone to approach him. Tilting his head, Delvin decided to play along and walked over to the bar. As casually as he could, the old man leaned against the wood next to the elf.

"You lookin' for someone?"

"I am, actually," the Bosmer replied. His tone was friendly, and he stuck his hand out for Delvin. Uncertain by this turn of events, Delvin shook the elf's hand. "Syndus is the name. You wouldn't, by chance, happen to be Delvin Mallory?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"Splendid. I understand you're the man to see when it comes to business matters. I'm a fletcher by trade, and I was wondering if your organization would be interested in me setting up a little shop down here. I assure you I can easily see this being mutually beneficial."

"Hold on – uh, let me go get Mercer. He's the one really in charge of these sorts of things."

"Understood."

With the eyes of the tavern now fixed on him, Delvin turned on his heel and headed for the cistern. The proposition caught Delvin off guard. It had been so long since they had a merchant down in the Flagon, and now, one had just strolled into the place and offered to set up shop without so much as a "how do you do." Either this was a dream and at any minute Delvin would look down to see he no longer had any trousers on, or things were certainly looking up for the Guild.

. . .

Teaching had never been the Breton's strong suit. How Delvin, Vipir, Niruin – hell, even Vex – could take someone under their wing and show them exactly where they were making mistakes and how to do it correctly mystified him. As the arrow flew past the doe, causing the creature to run off into the forest, Cynric shrugged his shoulders and gave Tom an apologetic glance. Standing up, her lips puckered into a frustrated pout, she put away her bow and trudged over to the general area where her arrow had fallen as Cynric sat down at the foot of a tree. If that damned elf was here, he would know how to tell the girl what she was doing wrong, but no, the Bosmer had other _obligations_. Exactly what those obligations were, Niruin had not explained, but Cynric got the feeling this was some twisted sort of punishment for hiding the elf's bow two weeks ago. Sometimes he swore he would strangle the skinny, pompous bastard if it weren't for the fact that his spiteful rapport the little ponce was probably the closest thing Cynric had to a friendship, but he digressed. At least Tom seemed to be enjoying the little trip, when she wasn't beating herself over the head over every missed shot. He meant this figuratively, of course, although he wouldn't be surprised if she started literally doing it. The girl was a temperamental thing and growing increasingly impatient with her failures.

Still, it was better than watching the young woman doing restless laps around the cistern like a wild beast pacing around its cage as she had been hours earlier. It had been a slow day in the Ratway. Only Cynric, Tom, and Mercer had been in the cistern that morning, and Mercer had barely even counted as a person as he looked over the ledger with lifeless eyes. Enticed by the spirit of a new beginning, the thieves were picking up contracts left and right. Because of this, the Ragged Flagon continuously fluctuated between being a lively hub of debauchery and corruption and being as empty as a long forgotten tomb. That morning, it had been the latter. After about the eighteenth time Tom had come full circle around the room, Cynric had pulled her aside and asked if she wanted to do something, just so she would stop pacing like a madwoman.

It had been her idea to go hunting, and though he would never admit it, the only reason Cynric had agreed was due to the eagerness that had sparked in her giant, brown eyes when she propositioned him. The moment of weakness had left Cynric all unsettled and a tad bit disgusted with himself. This hadn't been the first time he had gone out of his way to be nice to the girl, and Cynric knew better than to develop a soft spot for some wide-eyed kid who she was bound to leave at any moment. Sympathy wasn't a weakness, per se, but getting attached to something temporary was always a mistake, and mistakes could cost everything in his line of work. As well as she had done so far, there wasn't a doubt in the old thief's mind Tom wouldn't be packing her bags by the end of the year, just like all the other recruits Brynjolf had dragged back to Mercer – like a boy wrapping his tiny arms around the neck of some mangy, flea-bitten mutt as he asked his mother "can we keep it?" – had done. It was just the way things went.

"At least, it's a nice day," Tom commented as sat down a couple feet off from him.

Cynric's reply was no more than a shrug and a twitch of his lips. There was some truth to her words. The sun high in the clear sky, there wouldn't be many more days like this before Riften was assaulted by the heavy showers of mid-spring and the streets of the city were reduced to slippery pools of mud that made running from pursuing guards even more difficult. However, though he could appreciate it on a purely aesthetic level, Cynric had never been one for rolling hills and picturesque landscapes. A city man through and through, nothing felt like the cold stone walls of a large city, where the houses and people were so tightly packed together that no one took notice of a gentle bump of a shoulder or a hand sliding in their pocket. Despite the fact that he would most likely end up spending the rest of his days in the country, most of Skyrim was too quaint for his tastes. Even Solitude had this sickeningly homey charm to it. There was just too much air in this winter wasteland of a country.

"It's okay, I guess," he replied. Tom's bewildered expression prompted him to explain. "Nature doesn't like me, and I'm not particularly fond of it."

"What do you mean nature doesn't like you?"

"Need I remind you the last time you and I were out here, I ended up wrestling a wolf?"

Tom shrugged. "The wolves attack everyone."

"All right." – He ran his finger down a scar on his left eye. – "Here's where a spriggan nearly took my eye." – He pointed to his right shoulder. – "Got a nasty one here from a bear attack."

"In the bear's defense, you probably started it," she replied, smirking.

He forgot that under that cold, fidgety exterior, Tom was just as capable of bantering as the rest of the Guild. Taking her comment in stride, he grinned and leaned his head back against the wood of the tree.

"You know half the Guild didn't believe Delvin when he said the dragons were back until I nearly got roasted alive by one."

She smiled. "Did that leave a scar?"

"Nah, I managed to get away from it before it could do any real damage."

After faking a pout of disappointment, Tom began tracing her fingers against the ground, making figures in the dirt. Despite the childishness of her actions, in that moment, Tom appeared much older than Cynric had thought she was. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, or maybe he had simply never gotten a good look at her face. The latter seemed more likely than the former. Cynric made it a point to rarely look at people too closely. The general consensus of the guild members was that Tom couldn't be more than eighteen or nineteen years old, if not younger. She was "the girl," no more than a child in the eyes of her peers, but as they sat there, he noticed how although her face was somewhat round, her cheeks were thin and hard, lacking the delicate softness of youth, and how faint creases lined the area around her mouth and eyes. Once he noticed it, he wondered how he could have ever thought her to be so young. Scars carved a timeline of violence into her sallow skin. Even now, she was barely concealing faded, yellow bruises that covered her neck with the collar of her armor. This was a woman who had either seen battle or gotten caught in some exceptionally vicious bar brawls.

"What about you, girl? You look like you've been in your fair share of fights. Got any stories?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew it was a foolish question. Tom constantly deflected any and all questions about her identity or history with transparent lies. Tom's mouth twitched, but she unexpectedly humored him, smiling as she pushed back her bangs to reveal a small indentation above her right eyebrow.

"I worked in a tavern several years back. I was sweeping when some patron got too rowdy one night and flung a bottle 'cross the room, and this," – she traced her finger along a long faded scar that ran across her cheek from right below her eye to the side of her nostril – "is where I picked a fight with a pirate when I was ten."

"C'mon. What really happened?"

She chuckled. "That _is_ what really happened. Believe it or not, I was a rather fearless child. Thought I was so tough. Time sure fixed that mistake."

A melancholy tone lingered in her words as she finished speaking, but she shook her head and continued to smile as if she had just told a joke. In a way, it was a joke to her at least, but the dark humor of dramatic irony could only be enjoyed by the person who experienced the loss. To others, it left an overwhelming feeling of unease in the air. Shifting his body as if his discomfort was physical, Cynric forced a grin and shrugged his shoulders.

"Can't say any of mine are from pirates," he said. He touched his hand to his collarbone. "But I got one right here from where a man walked in on me and his wife. I barely had time to get off of her before he buried his blade in my chest, but it was worth it."

Smiling, Tom's eyes scanned the forest. The wilderness suited her, a reflection of her own self, wild and untamed yet easily broken. Sighing, Tom tilted her head and turned her attention back to Cynric.

"I wish you'd told me earlier about your aversion to the outdoors," she said. "I wouldn't have dragged you out here if I knew."

"It's fine." He shrugged again. "I like to think of hunting as revenge against the little buggers."

A small laugh escaped her lips. "Then, I'm sorry I'm such a lousy shot."

"You're not that bad. Besides, an apprentice is only as good at his craft as his master is at teaching."

"So, it's Niruin's fault?"

"Exactly."

Giggling, Tom came to her feet and walked over to where her pack was lying on the ground. Kneeling down, she picked it up and returned to Cynric, offering out her hand.

"Want to go rob Riften? The marketplace should be filled with pockets to be picked right now."

A grin on his lips, he took her hand as she pulled him up. "Now you're speaking my language."

The two packed up their things and headed back to the city. Just as Tom had predicted, the area was as tightly cramped as ever. Tom shot Cynric a grin. She suddenly pushed her way to the horde, quickly disappearing into the chaotic sea of shoppers, and he followed suit. The noise of the merchant's yells over the muffled chatter of the townsfolk sounded just as sweet in his ears as the melodious plucking of a harp's strings. Skillfully maneuvering through the crowd, quickly enough to avoid unwanted attention but slowly enough to avoid making any hasty mistakes, he pilfered a considerable amount of gold and small trinkets from the pockets of the customers before he finally caught sight of Tom again. She was sitting on the wall that encircled the central marketplace, watching the crowd and biting into an apple undoubtedly pinched from Marise Aravel's cart. Her eyes lit up as Cynric strolled over to her.

"Had enough already?" he asked.

Holding her finger up, Tom chewed her food and swallowed. "I was looking for you. The Snow-Shod manor is empty. I just saw Vulwulf and Asgeir enter The Bee and Barb, and Nula's always at the shrine at this time of day."

"You suggesting we clean their house for them?"

"I'll meet you there in five minutes."

Slinging her pack over her shoulder, she hopped off of her perch and disappeared back into the crowd. He opted to stay in the market a bit longer, sizing up the customers for one last theft, when he spotted the perfect target. A familiar Bosmer woman, dressed in the finest furs coin could buy, stood at a stall not far off, arguing with Madesi over the price of an amulet. Vain and materialistic, it was surprising how careless Nivenor was with her possessions and coin, often tying her coin purse to her belt where it could easily plucked from her side without her feeling a thing. As he headed toward the Snow-Shod manor, Cynric bumped past the woman and relieved her of a ring from her pocket. The Bosmer spun around at his touch.

"Watch it!" she snapped.

Restraining the initial urge to run off before she called the guard, Cynric quickly slid the ring into his sleeve and turned around to face her. At once, the woman's expression softened, and she shoved a coin purse at the disgruntled Argonian and grabbed the silver amulet from the counter. Cynric's eyes flickered over to the Snow-Shod manor to see Tom wasn't there yet. He turned his gaze back to the elf, who stepped closer to him.

"Well," Nivenor said, her tone suddenly as sweet as honey, "if it isn't one of Mercer's boys. I bet you get up to all sorts of trouble."

A golden necklace encrusted with a rather large diamond hung around the Bosmer woman's neck, and like a bird distracted by a shiny object, Cynric's imagination ran wild with plans to acquire it. Judging by her flickering eyes and coy smile, Nivenor was hoping he would rob her of something else. Fortunately for him, her intentions would make it all the easier for him get that necklace. Though he found her personality lacking – "harpy" may have been a word he once used to describe her – the elf was far from unattractive, and his morals were flexible when a considerable profit was involved. Cynric shrugged his shoulders and smiled back.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, tongue-in-cheek. "I assure you I'm a completely upstanding citizen."

"Pity," she said, looking him over. "Here I mistook you for a dashing thief, a man with agility and – nimble hands."

"Oh, did you now?"

"My husband's on business in Markarth. Imagine it, a woman all alone in her home. Who knows what sort of degenerates could sneak in at night?"

"Sounds terrible. Someone should keep you company."

"Someone should."

"I, uh," – Prying his eyes from the necklace, he looked back toward the manor. Tom was leaning against the wall of house, playing the innocent loiterer. – "I have to leave. Important business to attend to, I'm afraid. Maybe I'll see you around."

"Maybe you will."

With a flashy smile, Nivenor turned and headed off to another stall. Cynric quickly fought the crowd and found Tom by the manor. As he approached her, she gave him the same disappointed look his mother had given him after his first of many arrests. Then, despite herself, a teasing smile formed on the girl's lips.

"You're awful," Tom said.

Smirking, Cynric unsheathed his dagger and pointed it at her. "Yeah, yeah, shut up and stand guard."

Her lips pursing, she handed him a lock pick and crossed her arms. Her eyes scanned the crowd in search of any potential witnesses as Cynric crouched down and used the tip of his dagger to turn the lock slightly to the left. Breaking into a house during the day always had a certain thrill to it. Knowing that at any moment the wandering eye of one of the townsfolk or guards could stray his direction and spot the crime at hand, having to trust his skill and luck alone would keep him from a bounty being put on his head, it sent a rush of adrenaline through his body. The Breton kept his hands steady as he felt for the pins with the lock pick. As was expected for the Snow-Shod's, the lock was a difficult one, but nothing he couldn't handle. Quickly, he pressed the pins up one by one, listening carefully for the near silent click before he moved onto the next one. After the last pin clicked in place, Cynric turned his dagger fully to the side, unlocking the door.

"Got it," he said to Tom.

The girl nodded and followed him into the manor, shutting the door quietly behind her. Once inside, Cynric crossed his arms and was about to ask Tom about how she wanted to handle the situation, whether she wanted to take only things of great value or completely clean the house out of everything they could carry, when the girl quickly headed over an end table and opened it up, stuffing the contents into her pack and answering the man's question before he could even open his mouth. With a small shrug, he sauntered over another end table on the other side of the room, pocketing a couple coins that sat on top of it before he opened the drawer.

"So what did Bolli's wife want?" Tom asked in an awkward attempt to fill the silence.

"What do you think she wanted?"

"Oh. Are you going to?"

Cocking an eyebrow, Cynric looked over at his shoulder at her. "Why? You jealous?"

His sarcastic ribbing went right over her head. Flustered, Tom slammed the drawer shut and spun around to face him. Despite his amusement at her frantic behavior, he kept his face straight as he watched her stammer, trying to justify her question.

"No. I just – I was just – I'm not –"

Unable to keep it in any longer, Cynric broke into a smirk. Realizing he had been playing her, Tom's brow furrowed and her lips pulled into a sour frown. She glared over at the man with contempt in her narrowed eyes.

"You're an ass," she said. "I was just trying to make conversation."

"Fine, fine, sorry," Cynric said, snickering as he turned his attention back to his work. "I couldn't help it. You should have seen yourself. To answer your question, well, I don't know if I will or not. Maybe. She was wearing a pretty impressive rock around her neck that I want, and that seems like the easiest way to procure it."

"Right, that's what you're interested in, her necklace."

Tom chuckled as if she couldn't believe anyone could care more about monetary profit than physical pleasure. She clearly didn't know him. Sure, sex was great – no, that was an understatement. There were few things in the Nirn that felt better than sex, but it wasn't practical. It led to pregnancy scares and being stabbed by angry husbands and possibly worst of all, tears. Coins didn't cry or try to kill him when he left them. Closing the drawer, Cynric simply shrugged his shoulders in response and headed toward the kitchen. Unconvinced, Tom followed Cynric into the adjacent room and leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms, as if she were waiting for him to confess that he wasn't only interested in getting the woman's necklace. She could wait in that spot all day. He was telling the truth.

After swiping the candlesticks and a couple plates from the table, Cynric walked over to Tom, who was still leaning against the doorframe and staring at him incredulously. He took her pack from her and stuck the stolen goods inside. Pausing for a second, he examined the old, leather bag before he gave it back to her. Torn and weathered, it had seen its fair share of travels, which was unsurprising, considering that the girl took it with her everywhere she went.

"You should get a new one," he commented as he handed it back to her. "Thing looks like it's about to fall apart."

Tom didn't respond, opting instead to sling the pack right back over her shoulder and continue on with her skeptical stare. She was rather stubborn for someone who could barely hold herself together. Finally playing along, Cynric grinned and tilted his chin.

"What?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"A woman propositions you, and all you care about is her jewelry?"

He shrugged. "Girl, you severely underestimate how much I like gold more than people."

Judging by Tom's reaction, his response hadn't set well with her at all. The side of her face twitched, and her body tensed up as she took a defensive stance.

"So what? You'd sell someone out just to make a quick septim?"

"Depends on the person."

His answer was, at the very least, honest, but he knew it wasn't what the girl wanted to hear, what she needed to hear. She didn't want to hear about the innocent people he had framed for crimes, blackmailed, extorted, or otherwise betrayed. As a youth, Cynric had been a firm believer in the saying that there no honor among thieves, and rightfully so. It was perfectly reasonable to believe that those who lied, cheated, and stole would stop at nothing to achieve their means even if it meant stabbing their comrades in the back. In his day, Cynric had exploited that idea as a justification for his crimes and a reason never to rely on anyone. He could see that Tom held the same belief, but instead of embracing the ideology as he had, she chose to fear it. Of course, if the Guild had taught him anything over the years, it was that the old adage was simply untrue.

Tonilia had been the first one to call the Guild a family. She had first said it ten years ago as snide remark after one of the many altercations that had occurred in the Ragged Flagon. The term caught on as a joke because although the denizens of the Ratway weren't a particularly honorable sort, there was a twisted dedication they had towards each other under all the scornful glares and threats of violence like some sort of dysfunctional family. People came to the Thieves Guild seeking many things, mostly fortune, adventure, or protection, but they never sought camaraderie. It wasn't in their blood. Thieves were solitary creatures by nature, but bonds still managed to form between the guild members in drunken nights spent gambling in the tavern, in jobs gone horribly and hilariously awry, and in the never-ending race to upstage each other in both talent and wit. The hardships the Guild had endured over the years just made these bonds all the more significant. For the older members, it was no longer about the fortune or adventure or protection or whatever other reason they had initially joined the Guild for. They stayed out of devotion, and that was what Tom needed to hear.

"Don't worry, kid," Cynric said. "I have my loyalties. If I really only cared about profit, I would have left Riften a long time ago. Divines know the Guild wasn't exactly swimming in coin before you showed up. Hell, we're still not doing that well, and something tells me we'll fall right back into old habits after you leave."

Tom didn't reply immediately. She let the words sink in as her body relaxed. Cynric shrugged and continued cleaning out the room of valuables. There wasn't anything else he could say to her. She would either come to understand it or she would leave, and his money was on the latter. Finally, her timid voice came out from behind him.

"How long has it been like this?"

"Has what been like what?" Cynric asked.

"The Guild. It wasn't always like this."

"Oh that," he said. "Eh, about nine or ten years now, but even before that, it wasn't doing so well. Delvin says we've been cursed, but I don't believe that."

"What do you believe?"

"An exceptional guild master was murdered by one of his own. The Guild lost morale, and his successor couldn't fill his shoes. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying what happened is by any means Mercer's fault. Frey's done everything he can to hold this shitty, little band of thugs together, but he's no Gallus."

Cynric shut the drawer to the cupboard he had been rifling through and walked back over to Tom. Instinctively, she handed him her bag.

"What was Gallus like?" she asked.

"Look, if you want stories of the '_glory days_,' you're better off asking Delvin or Brynjolf. They're the only ones left from that era – well, Mercer too, but in case you haven't noticed, he isn't exactly the chatty type, but I digress. My point is I'm not the one to be asking about Gallus or how things used to be. I never met the man. He died years before I ever came to Skyrim. The way people talk about him, though, you would think he was the Grey Fox."

Her lips pursed tightly, Tom's face twisted up in confusion. "I thought you joined up before his murder."

"The elf tell you that?" Cynric asked. Tom nodded in reply. "Heh, thought so. Here's a piece of advice, girl. Don't trust everything Niruin says. He's not exactly a liar, but he does have a tendency to exaggerate."

"Noted."

"C'mon. There's bound to be better stuff upstairs."

Grinning, Tom swiftly snatched her bag from Cynric's hand and headed past him out of the kitchen back to the main room. He followed her, watching her curiously. No one in their right mind could swing between emotions as quickly as Tom did. He didn't know how Niruin put up with her all the time, but Cynric imagined it had something to do with the elf having a desire to break his "no humans" rule.

"Speaking of the little ponce," he said, "what's going on with you two? You, uh, fancy him?"

"Why? You jealous?"

Horribly pleased with her own wit, Tom shot him a devious glance over her shoulder, and Cynric had to force his face straight to keep from chuckling at her childish pride.

"Yes, I am completely and utterly jealous," he said, completely deadpan. "Stay away from my woman."

"Well, there's no need to be," she replied as she headed up the stairs. "There's nothing going on between us, and I don't '_fancy'_ anyone. Love is messy, and my life's complicated enough right now."

"Whoa there, I didn't say anything about love. I was just wondering if you two, well, you had a little fun in Solitude."

"No." A soft smile graced her lips. "That – that is even messier."

"I hear that."

. . .

Never had the air been filled with such suspense as when the rugged hero and his witty sidekick crept down the halls of the Count's castle. As the pair reached end of the wall, the muscle-bound warrior held his finger up to the elven mage, signaling for her to wait, and he peeked his head around the corner. There it was – the door to the room that held his love captive, guarded by two of the Count's men. Quickly, he began to devise a clever scheme to distract the guards when a gravelly voice came calling out –

"Elf!"

His nostrils flaring, Niruin slammed his book shut and glared over in the direction of the voice. Cynric sauntered up to the table where the elf was sitting with a sheepish Tom following obediently on the man's heels. Immediately, Niruin knew no good could possibly come out of whatever it was that the Breton wanted to speak to him about. Cynric had that look on his face that he always had whenever he was about to get Niruin to agree to something he didn't want to do. At best, it would only end in a slight headache. At worst, the Bosmer would end up hung-over in Winterhold with a three-thousand gold bounty on his head and a still unexplained pocket full of moon sugar again. Bracing himself, Niruin sat his book down on the table and straightened himself up as the two Bretons approached him.

"I do have a name, you know," he said bitterly.

Completely ignoring the elf's statement, Cynric pointed at the plate sitting in front of Niruin and cocked an eyebrow.

"Is that seared slaughterfish?"

Niruin wearily gestured with his hand. "Go ahead."

A skip in his step, Cynric sat down across from Niruin and pulled the plate over to his side of the table. Shaking his head, the Bosmer picked his book back up and began flipping through the pages to find where he had left off, as Tom walked around to the other side of the table and sat down next to Cynric. Wordlessly, he offered her the apple on the plate, and she instantly took it with a grin. As she bit into the fruit, her gaze fell curiously on the book Niruin was reading.

"What is that?"

"_The Tale of Danarius_," Niruin answered without looking up.

"What's it about?"

"It's a book about an Imperial farm boy who travels to High Rock–"

Cynric interrupted him. "A terribly inaccurate portrayal of the country, you ask me."

"Nobody did," Niruin replied. Rolling his eyes, Cynric made a nagging face that was clearly supposed to be a scornful imitation of the Bosmer. Niruin decided it would be best to ignore the old thief's mockery. "As I was saying, he travels to High Rock after his sister is kidnapped by pirates only to fall in love with a dastardly count's daughter and teams up with a secretive Altmer wizard as he unravels the mysteries of corruption and deceit that surround his sister's kidnapping."

"Sounds interesting," Tom said.

The girl's eager interest was quickly extinguished by Cynric holding up his hand as he chewed his food. Once he swallowed, he shrugged his shoulders and told her, "It falls apart halfway through the book after Gareth stabs Mirie."

Niruin's jaw clenched. "I hadn't gotten that far yet."

"Sorry. She doesn't die if it makes you feel better. They just spend the next three chapters thinking she's dead, and then when she comes back–"

"I don't want to hear it." – Smiling, Niruin turned his attention to Tom. – "If you want, I would be more than happy to lend it to you when I'm done."

"Oh, no," Tom replied. "It's fine. I don't – I don't read books."

Her stammered confession struck the elf as strange, and judging by the sideways glance Cynric was giving Tom, he shared Niruin's confusion. The only thing that could keep Tom's attention for more than a minute was a good tale. With both men's eyes on her, Tom's cheeks blushed as she swept her short bangs to the side and picked at her lip. Niruin tilted his head curiously.

"May I ask why?"

"It's not that I can't read. I can. Just not when there's big words and lots of them. I, um." – Her eyes scanned the cistern, and she forced a smile. – "Oh, look! Vipir's back. He promised me pickpocket training. I better go talk to him before he gets too drunk to function."

In a strange frenzy, Tom got up from the table and scurried off to talk to the Nord. Not fooled by her transparent excuse, Cynric and Niruin watched her leave before exchanging an incredulous glance as if to say there was something seriously off about that girl.

"Well," Niruin said. "That was – odd."

Giving a small shrug, Cynric returned to his meal. "By this point, I'm beginning to think _odd_ is putting it lightly. Kid's not all there, if you catch my drift."

Niruin would be lying if he said he hadn't grown fond of the peculiar, young Breton over the past months. Though strange, her withdrawn nature had a certain charm to it, and she was just about the only person in the Guild who would willingly listen with what appeared to be genuine interest as Niruin blathered on for hours on end. By the Gods, he had nearly gone into a panic when he found her washed up on the shores outside Solitude, strange bruises on her neck that she had still yet to, and most likely never would, explain to him exactly how they had gotten there. However, despite any affection or protectiveness he might have felt for her, Niruin had spent far too much time around Tom to argue with Cynric's statement. From her wild eyes to her blatant dishonesty to her tendency to pick at her own flesh, nothing about Tom gave him the impression that she possessed even the slightest hint of mental soundness.

His mouth twitching, Niruin put down his book again and glared over at Cynric, who was chewing a bite of what had formerly been the Bosmer's dinner. It was moments like this that he wondered if he would have been better off if he had never joined the Silver Crescents. While life in Valenwood had certainly been dull, at least he wouldn't have be impoverished, sitting at a dilapidated table in a sewer with a dissocial bastard who stole his food, made jokes at his expense, and occasionally talked him into starting drunken brawls with guards for no reason other than "it seemed funny at the time." Instead, Niruin would be unreasonably wealthy, sitting at a beautiful, marble table in a mansion drinking wine with his gorgeous wife, Ilsynia, as he prayed for sweet death to deliver him from the soul-crushing prison of unending monotony and silent misery. On second thought, Cynric wasn't that bad, and he did, from time to time, save Niruin from being devoured by wild animals with daring acts of stupidity.

"Needs more salt," Cynric commented, pointing at the plate. "I swear, elf, you can't cook worth shit."

– On the other hand, Ilsynia had been easier on the eyes and not a dissocial bastard who stole his food and then insulted his cooking.

"Surely you must have interrupted my reading for something more important than simply robbing me of my dinner."

The Breton frowned. "No, I mostly just wanted your dinner."

"Brilliant," Niruin mumbled as he returned to his reading.

_Their plan now in action, Mirie stepped out into the middle of the hall and began waving her arms at the guards, playing the distressed damsel screaming for help, while Danarius lay in wait for the perfect opportunity to _–

"So what exactly did you have to do today that was so damn important?"

Once more, Niruin snapped the book shut. It was useless even to attempt to relax and enjoy himself around the infuriating, little Breton. Forcing an amiable smile as he set the novel down on the table, the Bosmer straightened his posture and looked over the table at Cynric.

"I had a meeting with Maven Black-Briar," Niruin said, dully.

Nearly choking on his food, Cynric snickered. "How'd that go?"

"Same as always, she was frigid, condescending, and curt. She actually went out of her way to emasculate me at one point in the conversation, but she didn't threaten to have my body dumped in Lake Honrich so I think it went fairly well. How did your little outing with Tom go?"

"Fine. She needs more practice with you. She can shoot anything so long as it's five feet in front of her, but get any farther from that and she's pretty hit and miss – emphasis on miss – but we didn't stay out there very long, thank the Eight or Nine or whatever it is these days."

Niruin's eyebrows rose with sudden interest. "Oh? You were gone for quite awhile. What took you? From what Brynjolf says, our dear Tomas knows her way around the charm spells."

Somewhat amused by the suggestion, Cynric looked up at the elf, and the side of his mouth tightened to a curl. "Don't worry, darling. The kid and I just did a little house-cleaning. You know you're the only woman in my life."

"Oh, ha, ha, you're _so_ witty."

"Aren't I though? But to be honest, the girl's too young for me anyway. Not to mention she's a dead ringer for my kid brother."

"She does resemble you – minus thirty years."

"I'd say more like fifteen."

Niruin couldn't help but laugh at this uncharacteristic assertion. The Bosmer was used to this type of denial from the other thieves, but never from the Breton. Most of the Guild members were far from young. Since he couldn't really hide it, Delvin was rather forthright about his age, but he didn't appreciate the others implying he was any older than he was. Vipir was getting on in years, as were Vex and Thrynn. By Oblivion's gates, Vex was practically an old maid, though she would most likely stab anyone who dared say it out loud. Then there was Brynjolf, who was probably the worst of all when it came to age. He constantly pretended to be younger than he was, gallivanting around Riften like he was still in his prime and constantly courting women all of whom were young enough to be his daughter. Though he was about the same age as the red-haired Nord, Cynric, on the other hand, was usually more than satisfied playing the part of the embittered, old thief, acting much older than he was. Either the Breton had finally hit some sort of age-related crisis, or it had been some sort of sarcastic joke. Niruin's coin was on the latter. With a dull expression, Cynric glared over at the giggling elf. Niruin calmed himself and tilted his chin.

"Oh, come on," the Bosmer said. "You can't be serious."

"Believe it or not, I am."

"You've been spending too much time with Brynjolf."

"Please, I'm not that bad. I'm just saying the kid's not as young as she seems. Really look at her sometime." – Cynric paused and grinned – "and I'm really not _that _old, elf."

"You're pretty old."

The Breton shrugged. "Eh, younger than Delvin."

"Everyone's younger than Delvin," Niruin deadpanned as he picked up his book once more. "There are draugr younger than Delvin."

. . .

Things had gone from bad to worse for Gulum-Ei. First, Karliah showed up in the middle of the night and given him a business proposition he couldn't refuse even if it meant causing trouble with Mercer, and then those two thieves had been up to something in the city. By the Hist, he swore his heart must have stopped beating when he caught sight of them, but fortunately they didn't give him any trouble and continued on their business. Unfortunately, word quickly spread after that day about how the Thieves Guild was branching out again, specifically in Solitude, and that didn't bode well for the Argonian who had crossed them. Making matters even worse, the big, bad Brynjolf himself was now staying in The Winking Skeever, temporarily displacing Gulum-Ei from his normal routine. In order to avoid the thuggish Nord, the Argonian had taken to drinking down by the docks, and that's where he was when he saw the last person he wanted to see.

The moons were high in the night sky as Gulum-Ei hummed a song and took another swig from his bottle. Warm with intoxication, he could almost forget how much danger he was in, but still it loomed over his back with every cracking stick stepped on by some innocent passerby. He knew there was always the possibility that they had not yet found out about his treachery, but there wasn't a doubt in his mind that they would, and when they did, Mercer Frey's fury would come down on him worse than any sword and he would suffer an end he wouldn't wish on his worst enemies. So he continued drinking until he did forget all his troubles and the night was still and silent – almost too silent.

"There you are."

He jumped at the sound of the muffled voice and dropped his bottle into the waters below. Whipping his head around, he saw a dark, feminine figure standing behind him, and he let out a sigh of relief.

"Damn it, woman," he said. "Nearly killed me there."

"What has you so jumpy?" the Dunmer asked. From anyone else, the sentence would have been a teasing jab, but Karliah's soft voice sounded serious and concerned as always, as if she didn't even realize the terrible mess she had gotten him into. Bitterly, Gulum-Ei turned his attention back toward the sea.

"In case you don't remember," the Argonian drawled. "I put my scales on the line by acting as your proxy."

"They haven't caught on yet, have they?"

"I don't know. How about you ask your old friend, the Red Knight? He's staying in the Winking Skeever as we speak."

"_The Red Kni_–" her voice became slightly panicked. "You mean Brynjolf? He's here in Solitude?"

"Why do you think I'm drinking out here in the cold? Rumor has it the Guild's got influence in the city again. Looks like your little plot backfired. They're back on their feet again for the first time in years."

"I know," Karliah replied, wistfully. "That's actually why I'm here."

Ignoring her, the Argonian grabbed another bottle from his bag and opened it up. He took a long drink and continued staring out at the ocean, watching the waves crash into each other. After a long pause, he finally replied, "I don't suppose you're hoping I can be of assistance with whatever plan you've schemed up now? Because you've already got me in enough trouble with the Guild, and I don't fancy the idea of being made into Mercer Frey's new boots."

"I know you're cross with me, but I don't need you to do anything. I just need some information."

"Information, I can do," he said, "at a price, of course."

"Don't think I thought for a second you would do this without compensation. I need to know anything you've heard about the Guild – names, plans, anything that would explain how they've suddenly recovered. Here."

Karliah set down a rather large bag down next to his own. Sighing, Gulum-Ei took another drink and rolled his head back. He had heard something, even before the Guild had gotten its greedy little claws back in Solitude. Karliah always paid handsomely. Maybe this payment coupled with her last could get him out of the city and somewhere where Mercer could never find him. Frowning, he looked through the bag to see it contained a rather large coin purse and several gems. It was not enough to get out of Solitude, but it was satisfactory.

"Tom," he said. "He's supposedly this grand thief who could steal the scowl off a Dunmer – no offense. Word is the Guild recently recruited him, and he's robbing the whole country blind, even made off with some of Vittoria Vici's valuables, stole it right out from under her guard's noses. If he's real and half as good as they say, I'm guessing that's who you need to get to if you want to stop the Guild."

She was quiet for a long time. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he grumbled and turned around to face her, but she had already disappeared into the night. Shaking his head, he looked back toward the ocean and took another drink.

"Crazy bitch."


	7. Chapter Seven: Doubt

Chapter Seven: Doubt

As the spring rolled on from the clear sunny skies of early spring to the harsh downpours of late Rain's Hand, life in Riften had become a bit of a challenge for the thieves. Even when the rain stopped, the city streets were still caked in a treacherous mud, which made hasty, poorly thought-out escapes hazardous to the thieves' health and continued freedom. Despite this, the Guild had settled into a new routine. Though they were no longer charged with the initial surge of ambition that had been brought from "reclaiming" Solitude, they were branching out and making a name for themselves once more – or at least that's what Brynjolf had been blustering on about for the past month. Truth be told, Tom still hadn't much mind for how the Guild was doing or how much power they held. Nevertheless, the considerable amount of coin that lined her pockets certainly didn't hurt her feelings toward her profession, and neither did the strange companionship she had begun to feel in the depths of the Ratway. As the weeks went on, she found herself wanting to spend more time in the Flagon and less time out on the road, and with every return to Riften, she fell more and more in love with the sight of the city gates, a promise that her home was within her reach once more.

While she certainly wouldn't call any of her fellow miscreants a friend – a term that implied honesty and intimacy and a general belief that they weren't going to stab her in the back if given the opportunity – Tom did hold certain guildmates with a special fondness that had been alien to her for far too long. After the mess that had occurred aboard the Dainty Sload that had nearly ended with her strangulation, she had taken it upon herself to better her combat abilities, particularly with the bow, which meant more time spent with Niruin, not that she minded. When not out on jobs, she ate her meals with him. He would spin tales and they would drink until Tom woke up in the sewer tunnels, with a nasty hangover and little recollection of the previous nights' events. Though she hadn't divulged any more hints of her past, Tom had kept good on her promise to work on her honesty with the elf, and she appreciated his patience with her. Other than Niruin, she spent some time with Vipir the Fleet and Rune, though the latter had been suspiciously absent from the cistern most days. A possible explanation for the young thief's absences laid in a rumor floating around the guild, which had been far too often recounted to her by a jealous and bitter Vipir the Fleet, that Rune and Sapphire were having an affair.

Still, possibly the most peculiar alliance she had made was her growing camaraderie with her fellow Breton, Cynric Endell. The strangeness of their relationship lay not in their personalities, as it did with her and the elf, but in the fact that, despite their similarities, he simply could not make up his mind on whether or not he liked her. More often than not, the old thief reminded Tom less of a person and more of a cat, from the low purr of his voice to his tendency to slink around the cistern seemingly undetected and yet still hold himself with such poise as if he owned the place. Likewise, his affections were just as fickle as a housecat's. He could go days without giving her so much as a nod of acknowledgment, and then he would be suddenly hit with a sense of sociability and invite her up to their perch on the stone wall near the cemetery, where they would share a drink and play this cruel and horrifically amusing game that involved throwing rocks at birds and small rodents.

"Think it's going to rain tonight?" Cynric asked on one of these outings as he chucked a pebble at a rabbit. It narrowly missed the rabbit by an inch or so, but was enough to send the poor creature scurrying in the opposite direction. Taking a sip from a bottle of cheap wine, Tom looked up at the cloudy evening sky and shrugged. Weather in Riften was always a fickle and frustratingly unpredictable whore. As much as Tom had come to loathe the snow, at least she always knew that Windhelm and Winterhold would be covered in the frozen slush no matter the time of year. Riften could be the sunniest place in the Nirn one minute and caught up in a thunderstorm the next.

"Probably."

"Shame," Cynric said as he grabbed the bottle from her. "I was hoping not to get mud on my boots tonight."

"You planning on going somewhere after this?"

"Yeah, gotta meet up with a man outside the Black-Briar Lodge once it gets dark," he said in a grumble. "Not even for real job, just some shady business deal Maven needs done. Shit, usually when they want someone to run useless errands, they get the damn elf to do it, but I think Vex's trying to punish me for something."

Tom watched as a crow flew back and forth between two trees, as if it couldn't decide which branch was more comfortable. She picked up a small rock and held it tightly in her fist, absentmindedly feeling it over as she waited for the bird to come within throwing range. It was a sick game, but it was something to pass the time that didn't involve gambling away all her coin. The crow finally landed on the ground not too far off from them.

"I can't imagine why," she said dryly as she readied the rock. Cynric snickered in reply and took another drink.

"Yeah, well, I'm still not happy about it."

Tom flung the rock at the bird, missing by several feet, but the crow still flew off in a panic, cawing as it disappeared back into the forest. Cynric laughed and passed the wine bottle back to Tom. She took a slow sip. The eastern sky in front of them had grown dark, but it would be a while still before night fully descended upon the city. Night had always been a strange comfort for her. As a child, it had been a symbol of freedom. After the headmistress had extinguished the torches and retired to her chambers, the little Breton girl could sneak out if she was quiet enough, without worry that some guard in the marketplace would recognize her and send her back to the orphanage. Still, the port city Anvil had been a dangerous for a small girl, even one dressed as a boy, and sailors were a rowdy bunch with little regard for the lives of others, but dumb luck had always protected the pigheaded child as she roamed the night streets in search of the light of a room, high above the city, that called out to her like a siren. If she was careful, she could climb up the stone pillars, onto the balcony, and slip in through the window where an old friend would await her.

"Do you remember what I said earlier?" this friend had asked on a particularly warm summer night. Even at the young age of eleven, the young Imperial spoke with all the poise of a proper lady. She had been groomed since birth to be a woman of wealth, and it reflected in every bone of her body. "About the birds?"

"I do."

"My father is on good terms with the Count's wizard. We should have him transform us into birds. I could be a songbird, Caro, a gull, and you–"

"A crow?" the Breton child had finished bitterly. "A pest that feeds on the scraps of proper, _civilized_ folks? A symbol of death, disease, and other evil things? Yeah, that sounds about right."

"I was going to say an owl because of your giant eyes and nocturnal nature, but yes, I suppose that works as well." – To calm her friend's sulking, the Imperial girl had taken a maternal tone as she tied the Breton's short dark hair up with ribbons. "Oh, don't be so sour. Have I ever told you the story of the raven and the king?"

For the rest of their time together, it would always be like that between the two. One would panic or despair, and the other would soothe their partner's troubles with stories of clever heroes and daring adventures. The tales of heroes and villains, good and evil, had been a steady constant in the chaos of life. Whenever times were dark, when food was scarce and fortune favored her enemies, the Breton could look to the tales and tell herself this was just the struggle of her character and she would soon conquer the great evils. It was this sort of thinking that had gotten her through Lyra's death and her own imprisonment. Even locked away in a cold cell, trapped behind bars for what had felt like an eternity, Tom had been certain that all of her hardships were trials, but it had never occurred to her that she may not be the hero. Never had she thought would come out of the darkness a coward and a liar, who hid from destiny and spent her time in the company of the wicked.

It hurt to think of the Guild as the villains, and that pain in itself was strange. Though she had been quick to judge them petty criminals at first glance, over the course of her time with them, Tom found herself thinking less and less of the thieves' flaws. They were an incorrigible, scandalous lot with little morals and many, many vices. That alone was certain, but they were not the lawless thugs she had initially taken them for, no better than highwaymen preying on unarmed travelers. They were men and women, who boasted about their larceny not unlike how a smith would brag about a fine sword he had forged, and for all their teasing and prodding and slighting, Tom had found that the thieves were exactly as they claimed: a family. And though they were not her family, they had taken her in and bewitched her through their roguish charms and odd affections.

Nevertheless, they were the wicked. Despite their charm, the Thieves Guild was indeed, as Bersi Honey-Hand often called them, the scourge of the hardworking and civilized men, but it was unfair to deem them evil. Few, Tom included, had been handed a decent lot in life. Where else were they to turn but to crime? The words "just business" were so often tossed around in the tunnels of the Ratway, that it could be easily mistaken for the Guild's creed. Still, she wondered where business ended and evil began. Questions like that, coupled with memories best forgotten, were what drove the woman to drink herself to sleep, lest she be up all night pondering the moral quandaries of her profession. Shaking her head, as if to fling the thoughts from her mind, Tom took another swig from the bottle and passed it back to Cynric.

"Did anyone ever tell you stories as a child?" she asked.

"My brother once told me he saw the guards chop a kid's hand off for stealing a loaf of bread. Does that count?"

Smiling, Tom shook her head. His lips pursed in a strange expression, Cynric tossed a rock at the ground below them and sighed. Tom recognized the sigh immediately. It was the same one she gave when Niruin had asked about her lineage. It was interesting to hear from someone else. During her time with the thieves, Tom had observed that there were two types of people in the Guild: those like Vipir and Niruin who would gladly spout off stories often without any provocation and those like Vex and Tom whose pasts were their business and theirs alone. Cynric toed the line between the two. Tom had gotten the condensed version of his story pretty easily, and he sometimes gave little anecdotes that if strung together created a vague outline of a man's life. Still, though more open about his past than she was, Cynric became rather cagey when it came to certain, more serious subjects.

"No," Cynric answered rather grimly. "Ma was always too busy for bedside fairytales, and I'm sure you can guess by my spectacular life choices that dear ol' Da wasn't exactly around. I don't know. I've heard the tales, but not from one person." He made a face. "Why are you asking about this stuff?"

"I just – the stories. They're always of heroes. Even when we brag to each other about our accomplishments over drinks in the Flagon, we still paint ourselves in this heroic light."

"And?"

"I don't know," Tom said. "What we do – we aren't exactly the romantic thief, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor."

"Now, I wouldn't say that. I steal from the rich and give to myself, and I'm not exactly swimming in fine furs and priceless gems, so–"

Smiling slightly, Tom took another swig from the bottle and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "You know what I mean. A thief's life isn't what it is in the stories. We threaten people for money. We steal from the poor as well as the rich, and we aren't even allowed steal from probably the richest woman in this entire country. In the stories, it's all black and white – good and evil. But life here, it's all so grey."

"We're throwing rocks at animals for laughs, kid," Cynric deadpanned. "I think we've passed the line of morally grey and have headed straight into outright villainy. Next you know, we'll become powerful necromancers who want to enslave the Nirn with an undead army and be burning down orphanages and kicking beggars."

Tom couldn't help but giggle at the image. Smiling only for a second, Cynric twitched his lips and shook his head.

"You think too much, girl," he said. "Of course things aren't like the stories. I'd be dead by now if they were. Something ironic, I'm sure."

"I know. I just – you know as a kid you never consider that you might grow up to be one of the villains."

"Please, I'm not a villain. I'm one of the unnamed thieves who the hero kills while he's storming the Ratway, purging Riften of its infestation. You want a villain? Maven would make a damn good villain. Even Mercer's scared of her. You want a particularly tragic villain, there's Brynjolf and Mercer. Shit, those damned dragons are villains. You and me? We're hired thugs at worst, not cut out for real evil." He paused. "But you're not really talking about that, are you? No, you're getting all philosophical and pondering about morality and navels and meanings. Dangerous road, that, and it has no place in our line of work. You want to contemplate your existence? They got a whole damn society for that up on High Hrothgar. Hear it's a nice, tranquil place where you can lounge around all day drinking tea and finding your center. That what you want?"

Tom knew Cynric wasn't being cruel, not intentionally, at least. He didn't know the weight of his words. He couldn't know. No, he seemed to be speaking from experience. She wondered if he had to give this little speech to others or if it was he who had been questioning his morality. She doubted it was the latter. For all his faults, Cynric was a very self-assured person. Though not particularly decisive or ambitious, save for when it suited his ego, he spoke with conviction. He knew who he was, and as someone who waffled on even the smallest of matters, Tom admired that. Still, his talk of the Grey Beards hit too close to home, and Tom found herself feeling winded and weak.

"I don't want that," she said quietly.

"Of course you don't. That sounds boring as shit. Rather go back to prison than that. At least they drag you out of your cell and beat you in prison." Looking over at her, he noticed her unease and his smile quickly faded. "Look girl, I didn't mean to – shit. If it makes you feel any better, you bring in gold and your continued presence in the Guild is an insult to Vex. That makes you a hero in my book, kid."

There was a second of silence before the Breton man covered his face as he broke down laughing. Tom smiled despite herself and took another sip of wine. She was beginning to believe the man might be as mad as Niruin claimed he was. Finally, after his snickering subsided, Cynric held his hand across his blushing face in shame and exhaled loudly.

"That was awful," he said, still smiling. "Of all the trite, sickeningly sweet garbage I've ever said to keep a woman happy, that, uh, that right there takes the cake. I'm sorry. Don't know what got into me."

Tom weighed the bottle she was holding, the effects of which were beginning to hit her making her light and giddy, a dangerous combination. Alcohol was the enemy of the cautious man, but in her warmth, she found herself uncaring about her secretive pretenses. Her lips pulled in to crafty smirk, and she looked over at Cynric.

"From the looks of it," she said. "I'd say about half a bottle of wine's what got into you."

"Right, right. I'm clearly drunk. That's why I said it."

Forcing his face straight, Cynric straightened himself up in an attempt to regain some semblance of poise. A smile crept back on his lips for only a second before he turned his attention skyward.

"If it helps," he said, "we can't be all bad. I mean, Rune sees something in us, and I don't think I've ever met a nicer kid than him."

Tom hummed thoughtfully in reply as Cynric took the bottle from her. There was a truth to his words. If an outsider met Rune, they would laugh themselves silly when he told them his profession. Realizing how childish she must have seemed, she changed the topic of their conversation.

"You hear about him and Sapphire?"

"Is that true? I thought Vipir was just blowing smoke. Funny, always figured Saff for a younger version of Vex. Never thought she'd go for – well, _Rune_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"When you've been in the Guild as long as I have, you start to notice that the kinds of women that join up with us, well, they've got a bit of type."

Tom had heard rumors of the kinds of men Vex had associated herself with and knew exactly what Cynric was saying, but she knew if she continued to press the subject she could get him to shove his foot in his mouth again and get him back for all the times he had flustered her. In the most innocent voice she could muster, she asked, "And what kind of type is that?"

"A questionable one."

The firmness of his words indicated that not only Cynric knew exactly what the girl was trying to do but that he was not going to play into her little trap. Unrelenting from her goal, Tom giggled and grinned slyly. "Of course, but you, on the other hand, have very sound taste."

"Nothing's as sound as having profitable taste," he deadpanned, "and you should know by now not to engage me in games of wit. I'll always win, girl."

"All right," Tom conceded, "but I'll have you know that not all the women here have Vex's type. I certainly don't."

"Heh, of course, _you_ don't. I'm still not convinced that you even like men."

"Oh, you're so clever."

"Now, you sound like the elf," Cynric replied. "You should spend less time with him, or his sickening friendliness will rub off on you and you'll end up a pushover for some woman you don't even want to sleep with."

"Nice to know I'm not up to your impeccable standards," Tom said with a sardonic tongue, but she took no insult from his words. It had been a long time since she wished to be desired by anyone, much less by someone she didn't trust as far as she could throw.

"Didn't say that." The man smirked and scratched under his chin. "If I was younger and you weren't such paranoid whelp of a woman – sure, why not? But you're about as sane as Vex is kind, and I'm not Brynjolf and I don't bed women half my age."

"I'm not that young."

"Oh, don't think I haven't noticed," he said. Blindsided by his statement, Tom stammered and whipped her head around to face him. There was a frustratingly knowing smirk on his lips which just flustered her even more, but before she could find the words she needed, Cynric looked away from her. Turning his attention out onto the horizon, which was growing darker by the minute, he pursed his lips and hummed thoughtfully.

"I should go," he said, quelling any hopes Tom had of finding out what he had meant. "It's getting dark, and I don't want to keep Maven's boys waiting. I mean, I know Maven's renowned for her limitless patience and understanding, but it'd be rude to take advantage of her hospitality, you know?"

"Yes, yes, _hospitality_." Tom repeated the word resentfully as Cynric gathered his things and began to climb over the side. He stopped and strained his muscles to hold himself in place at the top of the wall. He smiled at her, and she couldn't find it in herself to stay bitter.

"Well, guess I'll see you around, girl."

"Good luck, boy. Don't let Maven's dogs rough you up too hard."

Cynric let out a loud laugh, and Tom watched he scaled down the wall a few feet before repelling off the side. As always, he landed on the ground in a tumble, but he was admittedly getting better at not hurting himself. Once he got back on his feet and brushed himself off, he gave her a mock salute and headed off into the forest. Shaking her head, Tom finished off the bottle. She found her mind growing restless as she replayed their conversation in her head. As always, it repulsed her how childish she had been, but that was a habit of hers she had become accustomed to dealing with. So long as there was someone to point out her foolishness she could promptly adjust her behavior to better fit what was "socially acceptable," at least until she was alone. Once she was alone, she could quickly slip back to her panic, letting her fears and anxieties eat away at her until there was nothing left but the shell of a wide-eyed child, too terrified to function.

Just as she was about to slip too far into her mind, Tom was pulled out of her thoughts by a familiar taste on her tongue, She found that in her inattentiveness, she had picked off a scab on her lip and now a small trickle of blood was now running down her chin. Muttering under her breath, Tom pressed down on the cut with her thumb to stop the bleeding. She made a mental note that that if she didn't break this habit on her own accord soon, she was going to have to start coating her fingers in a weak poison in order to deter herself from picking at her lips. Carefully shifting her balance, she pulled her feet up atop the wall and nuzzled her nose between her knees. It occurred to her that she should probably go back to the Ratway before it started raining, but she wasn't ready to return to the cistern, not while there were things still on her mind. She told herself it was better to let herself get carried away and fall into a panic away from the Guild than it was to force herself out of her mood, only slip back into it later in front of the others. They already thought she was mad as it was. There was no reason for her to give them any more reason to distrust her.

It bothered her how quickly Cynric had managed to charm her away from any negative emotions. It was a trait he shared with Niruin. They both had this frustrating ability to distract her from her darker thoughts and kept her mind at ease, which was admittedly a welcome relief, and as much as it bothered her, she was growing softer with each passing day. Still, she wasn't yet certain if these distractions were a step forward or backward. After all, from fondness came safety, and people always made the worst decisions when they felt they were safe. Tom had let herself feel safe before, and it blinded her to dangers. Attachment was a weakness she couldn't afford to risk, but it called to her all the same. It was a way out of her head. Solitude had left her a broken woman, who could barely remember to eat or sleep.

Tom sighed and lifted her chin. All this brooding never got her anywhere. All it did was lead her in circles until she lost her breath to the madness and passed out somewhere inconvenient to explain. She told herself this was a good thing. Her situation had changed, and she was no longer on the run. It didn't matter if she felt safe or wasn't waiting for a trap around every corner, that wasn't her life anymore and she didn't need to cater to it. What Tom had to do now was adapt to living with others and come to terms with the fact that it meant she would inevitably come to trust them. It didn't settle well in her stomach, but she would have to overcome that if she wanted to survive. Riften offered a worthwhile opportunity to create at least some pretense of stability, and she knew she shouldn't squander it to chase after paranoid delusions.

. . .

Vex loved this time of day. It was one of the few things she could admit, even to herself, that she truly enjoyed. The sun had just come up over Riften. Topside, the birds were chirping as the townsfolk rose from their slumber and began preparing for the day ahead. Down in the Ratway, on the other hand, the Ragged Flagon was empty save for her, Vekel, and Dirge. Most of the thieves were still in their beds, and more importantly, Delvin wouldn't wake until around midday, which gave five or six hours of peace before she had to suffer his company. However, there was a bigger reason still for her abnormally good mood. The previous night Mercer had approached her about a project she was to oversee and carry out. It had been months since Vex had been allowed to do a job, and even longer since she had been able to plan anything on her own. If she pulled this off, she would finally be considered a major player in the guild hierarchy again, and no one would ever mention Goldenglow or Markarth again.

As Mercer had explained to her, the job was for a contact of his, who had promised Mercer help with his own project. Vex naturally assumed he had meant the one that had swallowed up all his time. Over the past month, the nature of Mercer's project had become the basis of much speculation around the Ratway. Initially, she and Brynjolf had been the only ones who even knew Mercer was working on anything, let alone something important, but nothing stayed secret for long in the Guild, which just furthered the thieves' interest in what exactly Mercer was scheming up. Nobody, Vex and Brynjolf included, had even the slightest clue what Mercer could be planning, and it had led to some wild rumors. Vipir had even gone so far as to suggest that Mercer was plotting to steal Jarl Elisif's crown. Personally, Vex had little interest in these rumors and knew that Mercer would reveal his plan in due time. All she knew – and wanted to know – was that it was important and profitable. This had led to quite the surprise when she found out that she would be working on something related to Mercer's project. After her humiliation at Goldenglow, this had been a sign of good faith on Mercer's part, and she swore she would not let him down this time.

The task she had been given was pretty straightforward, but it would take a lot of planning. Vex was to frame a wealthy businessman who lived just outside of Windhelm for murder. Mercer had already talked to Delvin about setting up a little arrangement with his contacts in the Dark Brotherhood. Once she had the plan ready, Vex was to meet up with one of their men, and he would take care of the death itself. All she had to do was plant some evidence and ensure the blame fell on the businessman, which worked perfectly for her. Though Vex had never been one to back down from a fight and she certainly handed out death threats like priests handed out pamphlets, killing had never particularly interested her. If she robbed a man blind, he could possibly one day make enough coin for her to rob him again. Once a man was dead, he was no use to her. As she always did when given a task, Vex had been up all night working on her assignment. So far she had vague outlines of possible plans, but she would need a lot more information for it to go well. She needed to do some scouting on the man, find out his interests and routine, and most importantly, pick a target.

The other thieves began to wake as Vex continued on with her work. As always, Tonilia was the first to enter the tavern. She kissed Vekel on the cheek and gave Vex a nod of acknowledgement before she sauntered over to the dock area and began taking inventory of her little store. Around half an hour later, Syndus, the fletcher, came strolling into the Ragged Flagon through the front door. He ordered a drink from Vekel, chatted with him for a bit, and then went over to open up shop in the one of the alcoves out front, but it wasn't until an hour later until anyone came to bother Vex.

"Well, don't you look tired," a feminine voice noted. Wearily, Vex looked up from her papers to see Sapphire walking towards her. Not amused by the girl's tongue-in-cheek observation, Vex returned her attention back to her notes, as Sapphire pulled up a chair and sat down across from her.

"Need something?" Vex asked.

"No, just came to get breakfast," Sapphire answered in a bored tone. "Vekel, could you fetch me something to eat? Got a long day ahead of me."

"Sure thing, Saff," the bartender replied.

Vex frowned. "Long day?"

"Yeah, Brynjolf wants me to run some errands, which will probably take all morning. To make matters worse, one of those errands requires that I go speak with Sibbi Black-Briar about something or another, since Maven sure as Oblivion isn't stepping foot in a prison unless she absolutely must, and you know just how much of a pleasure he is. Then after all that's done, I still have to leave for Whiterun so I can do this job for Delvin."

"Sounds positively awful."

"You could at least feign sympathy, you know," Sapphire said. Her mouth curled into a teasing smirk. Out of all the degenerates in the Guild whose company Vex had to suffer, Sapphire was the one who irritated Vex the least. Everyone else, even Brynjolf – especially Brynjolf, could slaughter the little patience she had by simply being in the same room as her. So it was not out of her usual frigidness that Vex had been slighting the girl, but due instead to her need to concentrate on the task at hand. Taking a second to humor the girl, Vex lifted her head.

"I did," she said, firmly.

In mock defeat, Sapphire smiled and shook her head. Struck with sudden curiosity, the Nord girl leaned over to look at the papers scattered all over Vex's side of the table. "What are you working on there?"

"Something for Mercer."

"Oh," the girl replied. Her eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. "Wouldn't have to do with his big secret project that everyone won't stop talking about?"

"Not directly, but yes," Vex answered, once more distracted by an idea that had hit her with all the force of a charging bear, the kind of idea that had to immediately be jotted down lest she forget. "So no, I can't talk about it."

"Or you'll have to kill me. I understand."

Vex concealed a grin by puckering her lips to the side. As she looked down at her work, she considered that there was not much more she could do with it under the circumstances, at least not until she got more information on the situation. She picked up her papers and stacked them in a neat pile on the side. Besides, she didn't hate Sapphire's company, and Brynjolf _was_ always telling her that she needed to relax more. A little break from work wouldn't kill her. Straightening herself up, Vex turned her attention to the Nord girl sitting across from her.

"So steal anything worth talking about?" she asked.

"I did find the most gorgeous necklace while doing a job in Whiterun. I almost considered keeping it, but I ended up pawning it to Mallus while I was there. Good thing too. Any more time with it and I wouldn't have been able to part with it. What about you?"

Vex scoffed. "Please. Mercer's barely allowed me out of the Ratway after Goldenglow, and even when I do get up topside, Riften rarely has anything worth stealing that isn't already part of a contract. Not that it matters. Del and I have been up to our asses in paperwork this past month."

"Remind me never to apply for Guild leadership."

"Shame," Vex deadpanned. "I was going to give you my position when I become Guildmaster."

Sapphire snickered. "Oh, I don't get to be your second?"

"No, Brynjolf would be my second."

"Wait. If Bryn's still in the Guild in this scenario, why wouldn't he be the guildmaster? Oblivion's planes, he essentially already _is_ ever since Mercer started working on this project of his."

"Yes, and have you seen Brynjolf as of late? The man's completely miserable. Trust me, I know Bryn better than anyone. He's drawn to leadership, but he doesn't have it in him to handle all the responsibilities that come with full command."

"And you do?"

Although the girl had laughed as she asked her question and meant it in jocularity, it presented a bit of a conundrum. Frowning, Vex leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms. As far as she could remember, she had always been ambitious, but it had never been about power for her, though it certainly did appeal to her. Vex simply wished to be the best at what she did. Any power that came with that was an added bonus. Guildmaster was quite the title, and if their little band of thieves continued in the direction it was heading, it would mean she would be worthy of being the head of a notorious and profitable organization – the best. However, she knew going any further up the chain of command meant less and less time out in the field to which she so desperately wished to return. She could undoubtedly handle being in charge, of that she was certain, but what wasn't certain was whether she wanted it.

"I'm not saying I want to be Guildmaster," she said. "If Mercer retires and someone else who can do the job wants it, I won't fight them for it, but as is, I would say I'm the person best suited for position. I'm the best thief in the Guild, I know how it operates, and I could handle the responsibility."

"Well, aren't you modest?"

Vex smirked. "Modesty is for priests, kid."

Before long, Vekel came by with Sapphire's food, and the two women conversed while Sapphire ate her breakfast. As the girl finished her meal, Vipir the Fleet came stumbling into the Ragged Flagon. His hair was still mussed from sleeping, and judging by the way his shirt was only partially laced up, he had most likely put his clothes on in a post-slumber daze. He stretched and yawned before scanning the tavern with his eyes only half open. Vex noticed Sapphire made a face of disapproval and shifted into a sulking position as Vipir approached the table they were sitting at.

"Either of you seen Mallory?"

"I thought he was still asleep," Vex answered. "Is he not in his bed?"

"No. Bryn said he'd be in here." He scratched against his jaw line and yawned again. "You don't happen to have his contracts, do you? I was hoping to pick up a fishing job."

"They're on Mercer's desk," Vex said, tersely. "Brynjolf's awake?"

"Yeah, he's been up for awhile now," Sapphire replied. "He's at Mercer's desk looking over some numbers. Do you want me to go get a contract from him for you? I need to speak with him anyway."

"No, just ask him to bring them all to me," Vex said. "Delvin could be hung-over in Rorikstead for all we know."

"Yes ma'am," Sapphire replied with mocking respect and stood up from her chair.

As she left, Vipir sat down in her seat so quickly he looked as if he were falling into it. Slumping over the table, he buried his head in his arms as they waited for Brynjolf in silence. A good few minutes passed, but it wasn't long before the giant Nord sauntered into the tavern, his face bright with a smile and a stack of papers in his large hands. Vex couldn't help but note how different he seemed, only to realize he looked like he always had before being stuck with a never-ending pile paperwork in the Cistern. It had just been so long since she had seen him so happy.

"'Morning, everyone," Brynjolf greeted them in a booming voice. Vipir stirred at the noise and made a strange groaning noise as Brynjolf strolled over to the table. He set the contracts down on the table in front of Vex and shot her a grin. "How have you been doing on this fine morning?"

"Better than Vipir," she answered, "but not as well as you, apparently. What happened that's got you so chipper?"

"Some days you just wake up in a good mood," he said.

Vex nodded her head disbelievingly as she flipped through the contracts. "Uh-huh, sure. What was her name?"

"Didn't catch it," he answered, briskly. "She was lovely though."

"Funny, here I thought you were working all night."

"I was," he said in a drawl, "but I decided to go out for some fresh air _and ale_." – He teasingly directed this at Vekel the man, who promptly shot him a crude gesture. – "And I ran into this spectacular young lass who was staying at the Bee and Barb. You can imagine how it went from there."

"You're incorrigible," Vex said as she pulled a contract from Delvin's stack to give Vipir. She carefully slid the parchment under his arms. As she did, Vipir slowly pulled himself into an upright position. An absolutely miserable expression on his face, he squinted his eyes at it and began to read over. Vex turned her attention back to Brynjolf. "While you were out bedding women half your age, did you at least see Delvin? He seems to have disappeared."

"No, I did not, but that does remind me–" He reached into his pocket and pulled out two folded papers. "I got a letter for him and Tonilia."

At the mention of her name, the Redguard woman called out to them. "You say something about me?"

"Yeah, courier came for you," Brynjolf replied loudly. "From your cousin, by the looks of it."

As Vipir got up to leave, Brynjolf set one of the letters down on the table in front of Vex and asked her to give it to Delvin when he turned up as Tonilia hurried over toward them. A wicked smile on her face, she gracefully snatched the letter from him.

"That is an invasion of privacy," she said.

"My apologies," Brynjolf replied. "Have you seen Delvin anywhere?"

"Last I saw of him was when he stumbled out of here last night after a pint too many. I figured he was going to bed. Why?"

"He's gone missing," Vex answered sourly.

"Ah, he'll turn up," she said, waving her hand. She turned around and walked over to a nearby table to read her letter in peace. "I'm not that lucky."

Despite herself, Vex let out a loud laugh, and Brynjolf shrugged in resigned agreement. It wasn't the first time they couldn't find Delvin Mallory and would most likely not be the last. Motioning to Vekel to get him a drink, Brynjolf sat down in the chair across from Vex and grinned.

"Where do you think he is this time?" he asked.

"My current theory is Rorikstead."

Brynjolf chuckled as Vekel set a bottle of mead down in front of him. "I don't think he could get that far in one night."

"I don't know after he got his head stuck in the storm drain, I've learned not to underestimate Delvin's uncanny ability to do stupid things when he's drunk. Not to imply that he doesn't make poor decisions while sober too."

"Still can't believe he managed to get his whole head in there. On a bet too. He makes the worst decisions when coin's involved."

"I don't know, it appears ol' Del was right about one bet," Tonilia said, interrupting their conversation. Vex exchanged a confused look with Brynjolf before turning her attention to Tonilia. "And you won't believe it."

"What was he right about?" Vex asked.

"You remember all that business about the Dragonborn that was going around in Late Seed?"

"Please tell me he wasn't right about that," Brynjolf said. "I have so much coin riding on that one."

"Seems it is," Tonilia replied as she stood up and walked over to their table. "A man in Falkreath killed a dragon and was claiming to be the Dragonborn. Got a lot of people to believe it too, but when word hit Whiterun about it, the Jarl himself declared it couldn't be true. That he had personally met the Dragonborn, and that she was most likely training with the Greybeards up on High Hrothgar. According to Anora, the Jarl's saying she turned up in Whiterun right after the attack on Helgen, fought a dragon, and was summoned to High Hrothgar and hasn't returned yet. Almost word for word what Delvin said."

"Wait," Vex said, pausing in a minute from the questionable nature of the news to make sure she heard the woman correctly. "Did you say she?"

"Is it Maven?" Brynjolf deadpanned. "I wouldn't doubt it for a second if someone told me she could devour the souls of dragons."

Before anyone could reply, the front door to the Ragged Flagon slammed shut with a thud. The three turned to see Delvin trudging his way towards the tavern. His clothes wet and his eyes dark and circled, he appeared as if he'd had a rough night, and in her disdain for the man, Vex couldn't help but smile at the miserable look on his face. There was a story behind his appearance, and she just knew it would be hilarious.

"So not Rorikstead?" Brynjolf joked to Vex. She simply rolled her eyes as he called out to Delvin. "Good to see you back in one piece, Del! We were about to send a search party after you. Where have you been?"

Stopping suddenly, Delvin shot Brynjolf the outright dirtiest glare and grumbled something under his breath that Vex couldn't quite make out. He sat down at the closest table and crossed his arms.

"Didn't quite catch that," Brynjolf said with a smile. "You'll have to speak up. Where were you last night?"

"I don't want to talk about it," the old man replied, still glowering. "Someone get me a pint. Shit do, I need one."

"I believe that." Brynjolf picked the letter he had placed in front of Vex off the table and walked over to Delvin. "Letter came for you."

The old Breton straightened himself up and took the piece of paper as Brynjolf turned and headed over to the bar. Vex shrugged and began going through her notes from earlier once more. The story of what happened to Delvin the previous night would have to wait, but she had no doubt it would eventually come out. Nothing stayed a secret in the Ratway for long. Drink in hand, Brynjolf walked over to Delvin and set the tankard down in front of him before returning to his earlier spot across from Vex. After a couple minutes, Delvin sighed and put down the letter.

"Well, someone go get Tom and the elf," he said to no one in particular.

Vex lifted her head curiously. "Why?"

"Seems we've got another potential client on our hands."

. . .

No matter the season, one could always count on Windhelm to be knee-deep in snow, and as expected, the pair of thieves found themselves caught in a snow storm by the time their wagon neared the city gates. Never one to bet on a lame horse, the Bosmer had predicted there would be gruesome weather and had already dressed accordingly. Smirking, Niruin turned his attention to his companion. The Breton's arms were crossed tightly in an attempt to keep warm, and her red lips had been pulled into a sour grimace over chattering teeth. Upon noticing the Bosmer's attention, Tom glowered and pulled her hood over her ears before crossing her arms again. The wagon pulled to a halt just outside the stables of the city. Niruin cheerily hopped off the back as Tom slowly followed him toward the city. She had been more silent and moody than usual for the entire trip, and despite his better judgment, Niruin couldn't help but needle her over her unpleasant disposition.

"You know if we had taken a horse–"

"Horses cost more," Tom replied curtly.

The elf shrugged. "Just saying we could have gotten here in half the time, done the job, and be drinking in Candlehearth before it even started snowing."

"Shut up."

"Someone's in a foul mood," Niruin commented as the guards opened the gates for them. "What? Do you hate snow in addition to horses?"

"Yes."

"It seems you've made a poor decision in coming to Skyrim, in that case."

"Believe me. If I could leave, I would, but Brynjolf's counting on me to solve all our problems – or whatever."

"That, and because you think I'm handsome."

The remark was enough to get the girl to stop scowling and smile, even if that smile preceded a shake of her head. Inside the stone walls, Windhelm was just as dark and grey as the sky above, and as in every city, its citizens were quickly rushing from the marketplace to their homes or the inn as the sun began to set. As he watched the townsfolk bustle through the windy streets, Niruin kept his eyes peeled for a man of wealth among the many destitute souls roaming the city. Every city had its poor, but there was something particularly miserable about the people of Windhelm. Even those who had made it far enough in life to own a stand in the market to peddle wares and feed their family, they still held a certain sadness in their eyes, their bodies weary from the harshness of the city, pained by war and unrest, but they stood tall and proud, their spirits stronger than any other city. They were beaten but not broken, and they would endure this suffering without so much of a groan. Nevertheless, Niruin couldn't find it in his heart to pity them too much, not when they all looked at him with hateful distrust in their sunken eyes as they scurried past him.

"Let's find our man and be out of here," he said to Tom. "I don't much care for this city."

"I think I've spotted him," she replied as she motioned to a couple figures standing not far off. Niruin squinted his eyes to see through the harsh snow and crowded streets. There was Nord man talking to a Dunmer woman as a child stood impatiently next to the pair.

"I recognize the child as his son," Tom said.

Niruin nodded and headed off toward the man. Skillfully weaving through the crowd, he quickly reached him and his servant, who noticed the thieves' approach before the Nord did. She whispered something that caused the man turned around and eye the pair cautiously. He crossed his arms and asked in a firm voice, "You two the ones Mallory sent?"

"That we are," Niruin answered politely. "Torsten Cruel-Sea, I presume? Delvin said you had a job for us."

"Yes, just one moment," Torsten replied. He turned his attention back to the Dunmer. "That will be all, Idesa. Take Grimvar home before the storm gets any worse."

Tom scoffed at Torsten's words, as if she couldn't fathom the thick volleys of snow currently descending down the city and the harsh winds whipping against their cheeks getting "_any worse_." Niruin held in a smile as the Dunmer woman nodded and walked away, motioning for the child to follow her. Shaking his head, the Nord looked back over at Niruin.

"I will be honest with you. This is a somewhat personal matter. My daughter Fjotli – she was murdered a few months back. Bastards left her lying on the ground in a pool of her own blood. I assume they were after her valuables." He looked away, and a strange smile crossed his lips, his eyes full of happier memories. "She always wore too much jewelry in public. I used to tell her it would be the death of her, but I never thought–"

It was evident the sentence was too painful to finish, but he didn't waver. He didn't shed a tear or let his voice crack in sorrow. If one good thing could be said of the Nords, it was that they were a resilient people, no matter what life handed him. Niruin could not fathom the heartbreak this man had endured. To lose a child in such a gruesome manner was something no parent should ever suffer, and Niruin knew that even he, for all his flair and charm, could give no words that could ever ease that pain.

"I'm sorry," he said. Sighing, Torsten straightened himself up and looked the elf square in the eye.

"I know it wasn't your Guild. I'm well aware of its methods. It took me weeks but I tracked down the killer. Bloody Altmer, if you can believe that."

"Altmer in Windhelm?" Niruin asked incredulously. "What did you do?"

"Let's just say I'm a firm believer in an eye for an eye, and leave it at that," the Nord said in such a firm voice that it sent shivers down the Bosmer's spine. "He fancied himself a thief in some sort of new Guild forming around here. Gave me some valuable information before he – well, you know, but he didn't have what I was looking for. That's where you come in. I believe we can help each other out. You recover what I lost and get to take out a rival guild in the process."

"And what exactly would this item be? I'm assuming it belonged to your daughter."

"Aye, one of the pieces stolen from her was a locket, a family heirloom. I want it back."

"I promise we'll recover it," Tom said. Her voice had a fiery resolve that the elf had never heard from her. Torsten raised his eyebrows in surprise, as if he had forgotten the girl was standing there. "Do you have any leads?"

"The only name I got is Niranye. Has a house right here in Windhelm and a stand in the market. That's where I'd start looking. Talos guide you both."

With that, the two thieves took their leave and headed back down toward the market. As they walked, Tom trailed slightly behind the elf. Her dark eyes were vacant as she reflected on her thoughts. The expression was all too familiar to him. She often retreated into her mind, only to snap out of it suddenly and return to her usual feral self, her eyes darting wildly as if she were memorizing every detail of her surroundings. Still, it was strangely haunting to see her so detached from the world around her. Her movements were completely instinctive, as if she were a shell of a person simply going through the motions. It was in moments like this where he remembered why no one trusted Tom, despite all she had done for the Guild. Looking away from her, Niruin kept his mind occupied on the task at hand.

The sun had not yet set, and if the two hurried, they could make it to the market before this Niranye woman closed her stall for the night. Confronting her in public offered them the advantage of avoiding combat. She had a stand in the market and a house in Windhelm. She clearly had a life in the city, and if she was smart, which Niruin was hoping she was, she would not throw that all away for a band of murderous thieves. Of course, with all things, there was no guarantee that their encounter would go as smoothly as planned, and he had to prepare for whatever came out of this. Once they reached the market, it was easy to spot Niranye. Altmer were rare in Skyrim, and they were downright suicidal to be living in Windhelm. Bent over a crate, the woman was packing up her merchandise, all ready to retire for the night, when the thieves approached her. Bracing himself for anything, Niruin knocked his hand against the wood of the stall to get her attention. With disdain in her eyes, Niranye looked up them and forced a smile, but her body remained relaxed. She didn't perceive them as a threat – not yet at least.

"My store's closed for the night," she said, "but come back tomorrow and I'll see what I can do for you."

"Actually, we needed to speak with you personally," Niruin replied. Judging by the way her body became suddenly rigid, he had managed to get the woman's full attention, but she kept her face calm.

"Oh? What about?"

"A Nord girl named Fjotli, ever heard of her?"

"Fjotli, Fjotli," she repeated as she stood up gracefully. She leaned over the counter and pursed her lips as she rested her chin on her hand. "Oh, yes, the poor girl was murdered. Such a beautiful young thing – a tragedy to be certain."

"Drop the act," Tom said. Niruin was taken aback by the forcefulness in her voice as she stepped past him towards Niranye, who was just as shocked by the act. "You're involved and we know it."

"How dare you!" the Altmer exclaimed. "You're accusing me of taking part in such a – such a heinous act? I should call the guards just for suggesting such a thing."

"Go ahead and call them. Maybe we could get them to search your house. Or better yet, maybe you'll be the next person to end up dead in some back alley."

"You wouldn't–"

"My apologies, ma'am," Niruin interjected calmly as he grabbed Tom by the shoulder. The girl instinctively shoved her shoulder backwards to throw his hand off. Frowning, Niruin returned his attention to Niranye and forced his lips into an insincere smile. "Could you please excuse us for a second?"

With a strong hand, Niruin grabbed the Breton girl's arm and ignored her verbal and physical protests as he pulled her away from the stall. Once they were a couple feet away, the elf released his grip on the girl, who immediately jerked away from him like a feral dog. Staring up at him with her wild eyes full of rage, Tom scowled and rubbed her arm where he had been holding her.

"Don't you ever fucking grab me again," she said.

"What's gotten into you?" Niruin asked in a hushed tone. "Threatening people in public?"

The anger fell from Tom's eyes and was replaced by incredulous shock. She stared at him for a couple more seconds, her mouth hanging slightly agape, before she finally found her words. "She's lying!"

"Well that's fairly obvious, but you playing the renegade guard isn't helping anything," Niruin replied dryly. Not persuaded by his words, Tom crossed her arms and clenched her jaw as the elf rubbed his temples and looked back over at the stall. Thankfully, the Altmer was still standing there, eying the two thieves curiously. Niruin returned his attention to Tom. "Brute force will get us nowhere."

"Oh, and I suppose politely asking if she's seen the locket stolen off a dead woman will? Fear gets people talking."

"Yes, yes, you're very fearsome, all eighty-five pounds of you," Niruin said with a sardonic tongue. Tom scowled again, and he sighed. She was missing the point. "Listen. We need to handle this tactfully or we could lose our only lead."

"Or we could fail to persuade her and she'll tip off her superiors," Tom said sourly. "Then they run, and we have to go back to Riften empty-handed."

"Please, have a little more faith in my abilities. There's a reason they send me with you. Let me handle this."

"Fine," Tom said. The tension in her muscles relaxed slightly, but her tone remained bitter. Niruin had to hold back a chuckle at her appearance. Her nose red from the cold and her eyes as dark and sunken as always, the girl looked downright miserable as snowflakes landed on her head and shoulders and slowly melted away.

"But I call not telling Mercer the bad news if you fail," she added darkly.

Smiling, Niruin straightened his posture. Failure was not even a possibility so long as Tom kept her head level. "Don't worry. I'll take full responsibility."

. . .

The wind whipped against her cheeks as the young woman pulled her hood closer to her frozen face. The snow had let up a little since they had arrived in Windhelm, but with the sun now resting beyond the horizon, the night air was void of any warmth. Sitting against the outside the gates of the city, Tom held her knees to her chest as she waited for Niruin to return. After their little disagreement in the marketplace, Tom had reluctantly agreed to let Niruin do all the talking, and he had surprisingly managed to get the necessary information out of Niranye without threatening to break her legs. The Summerset Shadows, as this rival guild was calling itself, were holed up in a cave not too far from the city, and once Niruin promised the frightened woman that they weren't going to kill her, she had even offered to fence for the Guild once all of this was settled. However, even after confessing to being involved with the Shadows, Niranye had continued to insist that neither she nor her guild of thieves had anything to do with Fjotli's murder. This claim left Tom feeling a tad bit troubled about what to do next, but they still had to retrieve the locket and she decided that's all she needed to focus on at the moment.

"C'mon, you can sleep once the job's done," a friendly voice said as Tom felt a foot gently press against her shin. She looked up to see Niruin standing above her. He held out his hand and helped Tom to her feet. Tom dusted the snow off of her as Niruin conjured a small ball of white light at his fingertips.

"You get the directions?" Tom asked as she followed Niruin down the road

"Yes," he answered cheerily. "It's not that far from here. I also went ahead and rented us a room at Candlehearth for when we get back."

"You don't have to come with me, y'know."

By the dim light of the spell, Tom saw Niruin's face go grim, but he retained a warm tone in his voice. "If I recall correctly, the last time I let you go on one of these jobs alone, I found you beaten and washed up on the shore. You weren't even supposed to fight anyone for that job. So yes, I'm coming with you this time."

"I didn't fight anyone," she said meekly.

Niruin glanced over at her and hummed in a way that implied he didn't believe her, but he didn't say anything about it. Tom frowned and lowered her head, directing her gaze toward the path ahead of them. She hadn't told anyone of her encounter in Solitude, but she knew anyone who noticed the bruises could easily connect the pieces. After what had happened, she wasn't particularly fond of the idea of engaging the Summerset Shadows in combat. The feeling of the sailor's hard, calloused fingers crushing her throat burned in her mind, and she subconsciously rubbed her neck at the memory. However, it wasn't the fear of death that troubled her. What troubled her was what had come after, the power that had escaped from her lips and saved her life. Tom had been told of the Shouts – the Thu'um, as the Nords had called it – and there wasn't a doubt in her mind that was what the power had been. It wouldn't be a problem if she had Shouted on purpose in order to free herself, but she hadn't. It had just happened, and she feared that if she found herself in a similar situation, backed into a corner with no hope of surviving, she would do it again, but this time there would be a witness.

Tom contemplated the possible outcomes of Niruin hearing her Shout. She didn't know if Niruin would even recognize a Shout if he heard it, but even if he didn't, she knew it would take some fairly convincing lies in order to explain the phenomenon without telling him the truth. If Niruin did recognize it, well, that was an even more complicated situation. It was evident, even to someone as socially inept as she was, that he was fond of her. Exactly how deep that fondness went was something that she didn't know and wasn't certain she even wanted to know. There had been words around the Flagon – teasing from Vipir the Fleet, questions from Delvin Mallory – but she didn't particularly believe any of it. As often as the Guild was right in their rumors, they were just as often wrong, but none of this mattered to her. It was nothing but adolescent games of gossip, and she was long past the days of caring for such matters. All that concerned Tom was that the elf was fond of her and if he was willing to and capable of keeping her secrets. Unfortunately, in order to believe he would keep her secrets if it came to it, it was required that she trust him. She decided it would be best to avoid combat.

"Do you think it will come to a fight?" she asked quietly.

"Well, this Linwe fellow knows Cruel-Sea wants vengeance," Niruin replied. "If he's smart, he's got the locket on him. Normally, I would suggest you just sneak down there yourself and pick it from his pocket, but these are trained thieves."

Tom scoffed. "They steal from the dead. They're not thieves. They're vultures."

"Still, I wouldn't put my coin on them being as easy to steal from as your average citizen," Niruin said seriously. Then a kind smile graced his lips. "And you of all people should know what happens when you try to pickpocket the leaders of thieves' guilds. No, if we're getting that locket back, we'll most likely have to pry it from Linwe's dead hands."

"And the others?"

"They can live so long as they stay out of our way. Might have to kill a few to send a message, get them out of our territory."

"What about the whole '_keep your blade clean_' rule? Are we just throwing that down the well now?"

Niruin made a face. "You'll come to learn that, while those rules do usually apply to most situations, there's a more important rule in the Guild that takes precedence over our policy against killing."

"And that is?"

"What the client wants, the client gets, and Cruel-Sea obviously has no qualms on us killing these Shadows. When Brynjolf tells us to keep our blade clean, he's mostly saying that we aren't to go through the streets murdering people and picking valuables off their corpses. If a client gives the clear to kill anyone who stands in our way or if we're threatened during an important job such as this, Brynjolf's pretty lenient on that rule. It's a matter of judgment." He paused. "But no, I'm not particularly planning on shooting every damned Altmer I see, if that's what you're asking. You, however, are more than welcome to. It might help win you some favor with Vex."

Smiling, Tom shook her head at his joke, but his words did help clear her mind – on that subject, at least. The two continued down the road in silence as the night grew darker and colder. As they walked, the thought of the Shadows not being behind the Cruel-Sea girl's murder snuck back into Tom's mind and began to eat away at her conscience. It wasn't about a man dying for a crime he didn't commit. They were possibly going to have to kill these other thieves anyway to send a message for the Guild, and while that knowledge didn't rest particularly easily on her heart, she took refuge in Cynric's advice to not trifle herself with matters of morality. She had a job to do, and she would have to either carry it out or leave. No, what was really bothering her was the matter of the guilty man escaping, not only for reasons of integrity, but if Torsten later found out that the Summerset Shadows hadn't behind the murder, he might pull his support for the Guild. Tom told herself that he had seemed too reasonable a man to do something like that, but it was still a possibility.

"It's not much farther," Niruin said as he stepped off the road. "Just through this thicket and down the hill, I believe."

Tom nodded and began walking in the direction he had described. Despite her better judgment, she couldn't help but ask him, "Do you believe Niranye was telling the truth when she said the Shadows didn't kill Fjotli?"

"I don't know," Niruin answered, shrugging. "Possibly, but does it matter? We have to get the locket back and keep them from encroaching on our territory. Then we can go back to Candlehearth, get a good night's rest, and be back in Riften by midday tomorrow."

"I just–"

Niruin held his finger up to his lip to silence her and extinguished the light from his hand. In the distance, she could hear the muffled sounds of people talking. Slowly, he crouched down, and Tom followed suit. They quietly they snuck forward through the thick of bush and branch until they could see the warm light of a fire on the other side of the woods. Tom peeked through a bare spot between two bushes and saw three hooded figures standing around a fire outside a cave. They were standing a several yards away and had not yet noticed the presence of the two in the forest. Unfortunately, the three were too close to the door of the cave for Tom and Niruin to sneak past them without detection. Tom looked back over to Niruin and gestured with her head in the direction of the cave. The Bosmer nodded and drew his bow.

'_How many_?' Niruin mouthed. Tom held up three fingers. He paused for a second and contemplated a plan. Finally, he looked back up at her. '_Wait here and fire on my signal._'

Tom furrowed her brow and mouthed back: '_What signal?_'

"You'll know it when you see it," the elf whispered. A playful smile crossed his lips, which just furthered Tom's confusion, and he silently stepped back a couple steps. His eyes staring in the direction in the cave and his thin fingers tightly gripping his bow, he slowly stood up and slid behind a tree, disappearing into the woods. Tom shook her head and pulled out her bow as she turned her head back to watch the three figures still huddled around the fire. She drew an arrow from her quiver and waited for something to happen. Minutes passed, and Tom couldn't help but listen in as the elves chatted to each other about their latest accomplishments. She was hit by pang of regret for something she had not yet done. The way they spoke to each other was no different than the conversations she had heard around the Ragged Flagon. One of the three, a particularly thin male, stood up and headed over to a chest sitting close by. As he was walking, the air was filled with the unmistakable sound of a string snapping back into place, the quiet _thwick_ of an arrow hitting its target, and a strange gurgling noise as the elf suddenly stopped in his tracks and dropped to the ground. As the other two immediately rose to their feet in a panic, Tom shook her head and drew back her string. If that wasn't the sign, she didn't know what was.

"Calindil!" one of the thieves yelled as she rushed over to the body of her comrade. The other drew his sword and stared out into the woods, desperately looking for where the arrow had come from. The Altmer woman perched over her fallen friend. "We're under attack. Alert the others."

Inhaling quietly, Tom released the string. The arrow flew through the air and missed the man by a matter of inches. Swearing to herself, she heard a feminine scream fill the air as the woman fell over and grabbed her leg. Niruin had hit yet another of his targets. The thieves were too far off for Tom to have a chance at hitting one of them before they discovered either her or Niruin. They needed a distraction, and the only thing she could think to do was to resort to dirtier tricks. She focused her mind as a red light formed in her hand just as the Altmer man turned in her direction and locked eyes with the Breton.

"Ther–"

He was cut off by the spell hitting him square in the chest and knocking him back a few steps. The woman whimpered as she stood up while Tom readied another arrow. Hearing the Altmer woman behind him, the man's mad eyes twitched as he jerked around to face her. Recognizing the spell almost immediately, she swore and drew her sword as the man lunged at her. Quickly, she blocked his blow with her sword, but the force of his attack was too much for her and her leg gave way, sending her right back to the ground. Tom shot another arrow at the man and hit him in the arm. It distracted him just long enough for his companion to roll away from him, only to be hit in the back of her shoulder by another arrow as she tried to get back on her feet. She screamed again, regaining the man's attention. He started over to her, but she lunged forward and skewered him through the stomach with her sword before he could bring down the killing blow. Beaten, the man tumbled over as the remaining Altmer arduously pulled the arrow from her shoulder and rose to her feet one last time. Her shoulders slumped forward, she took a second to catch her breath as Niruin stepped out of the shadows, his bow readied and aimed straight at the woman. At the sound of the noise, the Altmer swirled around to face him and vainly swung her sword a couple times in his general direction, but he was out of her reach. Worried that Niruin's flair for the dramatic would be the death of him, Tom drew her dagger and emerged from behind the bushes. The woman turned her head toward the Breton, and her weary eyes widened as she found herself outnumbered.

"By the Eight," she muttered. The Altmer thief tossed her golden hair from her face as her eyes flickered between the two. In the light of the fire, Tom could see the defeat in the woman's eyes. She slowly retreated a couple steps away from the two, but Niruin kept his aim steady, ready to fire at even the slightest provocation. Tom had never seen the Bosmer so somber. His face was cold and unyielding, drained of any of his typical self-satisfied humor. Tom knew he was ready to kill this woman if she attacked, and the Altmer must have seen it herself because she lowered her sword and let her body relax.

"It seems I've found myself in quite the corner," the woman mused, more to herself than her foes. Tom had to admire her ability to smile in the face of death. "Any chance you two gentlemen could find the mercy in your hearts to spare a poor, beaten woman?"

"I've heard that before," Niruin said dryly. "It's usually followed by someone trying to stab me in the back."

"You're a smart boy," the woman replied, "but it will do you no good. Even if you kill me, there are at least fifty Shadows waiting in that cave. They will make easy work of you – and your boy. So I suggest you turn around now and head back into whatever bandit camp or tavern you came crawling out of."

"Girl," Tom corrected, unthinking. The woman pursed her lips confused as she turned her head and inspected Tom more carefully. She then shrugged as Tom addressed Niruin. "And she's bluffing. I doubt there's more than ten of them." – Tom turned her attention back to the woman. – "You aren't a very good liar."

"You caught me," the woman said with a haughty smirk on her lips. "It doesn't matter. Linwe will take care of you."

"So Linwe _is_ here," Niruin replied. "I tell you what. Maybe I do find myself in a merciful mood."

"Oh, do you? I highly doubt this favor will come without a price. Tell me what you want of me, boy."

"Where's the locket?"

"You'll have to be more specific than that, my dear."

The woman faked a chuckle and took a step closer to Niruin. Tom watched in shock as he released the string and the arrow flew past the Altmer, barely missing her neck. Shaken by the near brush with death, the woman stumbled backwards. As she regained her composure, she whipped her head toward the Bosmer, her terrified eyes locking with his. Niruin did not falter in his resolve. He swiftly drew another arrow from his quiver and readied his bow.

"Stay back," he said firmly, "or my next arrow will not miss. Now, toss your sword over towards my associate."

"Surely you don't expect me to leave myself def–"

Niruin drew the string back, aiming the arrow at the woman once more. Sourly, she dropped her sword and knocked it toward Tom with her boot. Her gaze not leaving the Altmer thief, Tom slowly stooped to pick up the sword with her empty hand.

"Now don't play games with me," Niruin said. "Where's the locket?"

"We have many trinkets," she answered. "Any of them could be this locket you're searching for. As I said, you'll have to be more specific than that, boy."

"The one stolen off the Cruel-Sea girl's body."

At the mention of the Cruel-Sea's name, the woman's pupils dilated, and her mouth curled into a smirk. Her earlier arrogance returned to her tone as she crossed her arms and leaned back. "Ah, so you're the one's Torsten decided to send. I can't say we haven't been expecting you, but I must say I did think old Cruel-Sea would send someone – _larger_."

"No, just us, darling. Now where is it?"

"Linwe has it on him," she answered, confirming Niruin's earlier suspicions. "He was hoping to use it as leverage. Now that I've answered your questions, may I go?"

Smiling, Niruin lowered his bow. "Yes, you've been very helpful. If you promise to leave and never return, my partner will give you your sword back."

"I swear on my life."

As the Altmer strolled over towards the Breton to retrieve her sword, Tom shot the Bosmer a bewildered glare. He was going to get her killed. There was no telling if this woman wouldn't break her word, take the sword, and run Tom through with it. Noticing the Breton's misgivings, Niruin simply smirked at Tom with that same wily look he had given her before disappearing into the forest. Just as the woman got within a foot of Tom, she suddenly stopped as Tom was sprayed in the face with a red liquid, which she immediately identified as blood by the taste. Horrified, Tom instinctively spat it out and gasped for air as the woman crumpled over onto the ground. Frantically wiping the blood off her face with her sleeve, she stammered and stared at Niruin, who casually put away his bow and grinned at her smugly. He had gone completely mad.

"Well," he said if he were commenting on the weather. "Wasn't that thrilling?"

"What was that?" Tom replied. "You – I'm covered in – You shot – You said you would let her go."

The elf shrugged and sauntered past the girl toward the chest near the campfire. He stepped over the dead bodies as if they were nothing more than holes in the ground.

"Now, wouldn't that have been a mistake," he said somewhat dramatically. "She could have attacked us or waited until we entered the hideout and alerted the others of our presence. No, she had to die. She couldn't be trusted."

Bending down, Niruin unlocked the chest and began rummaging through it. Tom couldn't help but agree with his reasoning even if she did take exception to his methods. "Then why did you even talk to her if you were just going to kill her?"

"Think of it this way. If we know where the heirloom is, we won't have to rifle through every drawer and look through every thief's pocket in search of it, and the less we have to search, the less likely someone is to notice our presence. The less we are noticed, the less people we have to fight. The less people we have to fight, the less likely we are to die, and I don't particularly wish to die tonight – oh my, is that a ruby?"

The Bosmer eagerly pocketed the gem as Tom shook her head. She had to admit his plan was sounder than anything she could ever come up with and his logic was even sounder – so maybe he hadn't gone completely mad. She walked over to Niruin and crossed her arms as she watched him continue going through the chest.

"So what are we going to do about Linwe?" she asked.

* * *

><p><em>Author's notes: <em>Hey you know that moment when you have to cut a POV in half because this chapter is already 14,000 plus words (Average words per chapter on this story is about 11,000, by the way) and you're not even halfway done with the scene yet? Yeah, so chapter eight will pick up almost literally exactly where this left off. Also, hopefully I'll be updating more quickly in the next couple chapters since we're getting to a part of the story that I've been waiting to write since chapter three. So yeah, get excited. (As always, I'm really grateful for all the favorites and reviews and oh my god, you guys are the most patient wonderful reviewers ever.)


	8. Chapter Eight: Warmth

Chapter Eight: Warmth

Slowly, the elf inched toward the open door, his companion following closely behind him. Holding his hand up, he motioned for Tom to wait as he peered around the corner of the door frame. The room was large and void of any sign of life. Between two pillars, a large, red banner hung from the ceiling. By its décor, it was safe to assume this was the main room, a gathering place of sorts. Their target couldn't be far, and Niruin was willing to wager that one of the doors which stood on either side of the room led to Linwe's quarters. After gesturing for Tom that it was safe to follow, Niruin quickly slipped into the room being careful to stick to the shadows. It was no simple task however. Ever since entering the caverns, the only sources of light they had found were a few torches hanging from the walls at infrequent intervals. This room was better lit than the others had been, and with the exception of a few tables, there was nothing that could be offered as cover. Still, as long as they kept silent, the two could most likely reach the doors before being caught. Besides, after how little trouble they had with the guards, Niruin was certain they could easily carve their way out of the cave if necessary, but it was better to err on the side of caution and Tom did not seem particularly keen on the idea of killing the Shadows.

How easy it had been to slip through the tunnels past the armed thieves troubled the Bosmer as he slowly snuck toward one of the doors, Tom mirroring him on the opposite side of the room. Niruin caught himself wondering if it would be this easy for someone to infiltrate the Ratway without detection, but before he could further contemplate the subject, the door on Tom's side of the room flew open, stopping the elf's heart. They had been caught. Niruin stood frozen as a tall Altmer man stepped into the room. Niruin was close enough to see the glow of his golden eyes in the torchlight, but his attention was too focused on the parchment in his hand to notice the intruders. Niruin felt his panic ease slightly as the Altmer walked over to a table and sat down. The man's armor slightly differed from the armor of the other thieves Niruin and Tom had encountered, just as Mercer's armor slightly differed from their own. There wasn't a doubt in Niruin's mind that the man was Linwe.

Clinging to the wall, Niruin held his breath as he slowly crouched down. The initial terror had faded, but his heart still pounded in his throat. By some divine intervention, Linwe had been too distracted to notice him earlier, but Niruin would be a fool to press that luck. The closer he was to the ground, the less likely Linwe was to catch sight of him. As silently as he could, he crept toward the table closest to him and crawled underneath it. Only then, did he allow himself to breathe again as he peered out to catch another glimpse of Linwe. The man still sat at the table, eating a piece of bread that had been left out and reading his paper, completely unaware of the danger that surrounded him. There was a certain tired gruffness in his demeanor that reminded Niruin of Mercer. His nerves eased, and he couldn't help but smile to himself. Despite the similarities in the way they held themselves, Mercer, in all his shrewdness, would never allow himself to be caught off-guard like this. All they had to do now was retrieve the locket and slip back out before anyone was the wiser. Then Niruin thought of Tom. She had been right next to the door when it opened, but now she had seemingly disappeared, hiding somewhere in the darkness.

Niruin frowned. This presented a problem. Before entering the caverns, Tom and Niruin had come up with a strategy for retrieving the locket. Once they had located Linwe, she would get the locket from him while Niruin waited in the shadows with his bow. If Tom was successful, they would simply leave. If Linwe caught her, Niruin would stick him with an arrow before the man could even draw his sword. However, this whole plan hinged on Niruin being able to see Tom while she tried to take the locket, so he could be ready if it took a turn for the worst. From under the table, his mobility was compromised and with it, his aim. He wouldn't have a clear shot if Tom decided to go ahead with the plan. Then there was the added complication of not knowing when the theft would take place and therefore having to wait for Linwe to take the offensive. The thought left a poor taste in his mouth. Niruin didn't know how fast this man was with a blade. Tom could be skewered in half before Niruin even had a chance to release the string.

Retrieving an arrow from his quiver, Niruin readied his bow. It occurred to him he could just shoot Linwe now and save himself the trouble. They had already killed a few of the Shadows, and he doubted the higher-ups would punish them over a few dead members of a rival guild. They might even congratulate him for taking out the leader, but Tom would care. She would angrily berate him the entire way back to Windhelm and glare at him with those giant brown eyes. Niruin didn't know what her problem was. The Summerset Shadows had to leave Skyrim one way or another, and killing them would be the most effective way to get them out, but this was Tom's job. As much as he didn't like it, they were going to do things her way even if it meant her death. No, he didn't like that at all. Still, all he could do now was steel himself for the worst and hope that Tom would be patient enough to wait until Linwe headed back to his chambers so they could reassess the situation.

Of course, luck would not have it, and he watched as Linwe suddenly jerked back and leapt from his seat. On cue, Niruin immediately released the string of his bow, but in his unthinking desperation, his aim was compromised even further and the arrow struck the table. Linwe drew his sword as Niruin clambered out from underneath the table. In the chaos, Niruin caught a frantic, feminine gasp, and as he stood up, he saw Linwe stumble backwards. There was something sticking out of his chest, but Niruin had no time to examine what it was. He mechanically pulled another arrow from his quiver and shot it into the man, repeating this action over and over until the man fell to the ground. It took the Bosmer a few seconds to realize Linwe was dead, but once he did, he let out a small sigh and let his wits return to him. Tom emerged from behind the table, panting heavily, but she appeared otherwise no worse for wear. Niruin caught himself smiling, but his relief did not last long.

A door burst open behind the two thieves. Niruin spun to see two Summerset Shadows emerging from the other room, their weapons – one a bow, the other a mace – drawn and their faces full of anger. Instinctively, Niruin pulled another arrow and shot it at the one with the mace, but as he reached back for his quiver, a searing pain pierced through his shoulder. The force of the blow caused him to lose his footing, and he fell to the ground, hitting his head against the leg of the table. Groaning, Niruin clenched his teeth as he quickly pulled the arrow from his shoulder and got to his feet, only to see Tom crouched over the remaining Shadow, the one who shot him, as she angrily drew her dagger from the dying Altmer's neck. As she stood up, there was a terrified rage in the Breton's eyes Niruin had never seen in a person. It didn't last more than a second. As soon as she noticed Niruin standing behind her, her expression softened and she sighed in relief, but the intensity that her eyes had held couldn't be shook from his mind. It was too empty for a sapient creature, too base, but Niruin had no time to muse over the hidden meanings behind a woman's eyes, not while enemies could be enclosing on the two of them.

"Are you injured?" Tom asked as she fretfully rummaged through her pack. "I should have a potion in here that could help with the bleedi–"

"I'm fine," Niruin replied, not unkindly. Tom's expression suggested she didn't quite believe him, but it wasn't necessarily a lie. There was a severe pain pulsing in the back of his head from where he had hit the table, and though his shoulder didn't seem to be bleeding profusely, he would have to deal with that at some point. All things considered, he'd had worse. There was the matter of the light feeling in his head and the way his vision kept blurring which was moderately troubling, but he could fight that until they were out of danger.

"We should get out of here while we can," he said. "Others could be on their way. Do you have the locket?"

. . .

If there was one trait that was unarguably shared by all sapient races, it was the telling of stories. The Altmer with all their pride were still united with the lowliest Argonian in this simple facet. Since the beginning of time, men and mer and the beast races alike have all told stories. Some were true historical accounts written down by scholars and kept in libraries for prosperity. Others were pure fiction, meant only to amuse the imaginative soul or to be used as parable for the cautious minded, and still there were some tales had been told so many times that facts had been muddled in with rumors and exaggerations until they became what could only be known as legend. In all her years, Tom had grown fond of such stories, whether they be fact or fiction, but there was one she kept closer to her heart than any of the others. It was a tale that would never be written down by scholars, nor sung by bards, nor told by mothers to unruly children. No this story would live on only in her own memories, though another version would be told.

The story that would be told was that of a grieving father, whose son had been taken from him by the son's manipulative shrew of a wife, who associated with a dreadful witch of unknown magical prowess. After a year of scouring the realm for these dangerous criminals, the lawmen had all but given up their search, but the father never relented from avenging his son's untimely death. He would spare no coin on hiring sellswords and offering great rewards to whoever could bring these fugitives to justice. For years, the wife and the witch eluded him until one fortunate night when he received a tip from a lowly thief that the criminals were residing among the poor in his country's capital under false identities. He called for the city guard to investigate these claims. Once the guards located the criminals, they broke open the door to their hide out and found inside a nefarious pirate. The pirate was no match for the guards, but he held them off long enough for the fugitives to escape. Nevertheless, with the trail now warm, the guards again found the wife and the witch a matter of months. This time they would not evade justice.

However, this was not the tale Tom knew. She only knew a battered widow, crying on the dirty floorboards of a shack about how unfair it all was, as a sailor and a tavern wench tried to make sense of their situation and desperately planned an escape. As the guards beat down on the door, the sailor turned to the wench and ordered her to hide with the widow under the floorboards. When the wench protested, he simply kissed her and told her prepare one of her spells in case things went south. The wench watched through the cracks of the wole-eaten wood as her lover fought guard after guard, until finally a sword drove through his stomach. The wench would escape that night, and months later, when her blood spilled on a mountain top and painted the snow red, again she would survive. She would escape from prison, travel north, assume a new identity, and start again. Then, just as she settled back into a new home, she would find herself in a cave, fighting a rival faction. In the heat of battle, the woman would turn and see a man – not one she loved, but one she cared for despite her better judgment – pierced by an arrow.

As Niruin fell to the ground, Tom felt her stomach jolt and a terrible anger flow through her body. This wasn't going to happen again. She wouldn't allow it. Instinctively, she charged at the Altmer, catching a glimmer of panic in his eyes as she tackled him to the ground. Blinded by rage, she drove her dagger into the elf's throat and twisted the blade. Her ears caught a clamor coming from behind her, and Tom quickly drew the dagger from the Shadow's throat before whipping her head in the direction of the noise. Niruin stood above her, his eyes wide and his mouth clenched tightly shut. There was a noticeable hole in his armor around his shoulder, wet and red with blood, but he did not appear gravely injured. Tom exhaled and stood up. She grabbed for her pack and frantically searched through it. She was almost certain she had brought a potion of health.

"Are you injured?" Tom asked. "I should have a potion in here that could help with the bleedi–"

"I'm fine," Niruin replied. His tone was firm, but there was something about the way he held his head that suggested he was in more pain than he was letting on. "We should get out of here while we can. Others could be on their way. Do you have the locket?"

"I do," Tom said. "But I really think–"

"No, don't worry about me. I'll be fine so long as we get out of here before anyone else finds us."

An indignant frown crossed the Breton woman's lips. His words were slurring like a drunk's, and it did nothing to convince her otherwise. Still, he had a point. Getting him out of the cave took priority. Tom sighed and relented in her attempts to help him. "Fine. You go, and stay out of sight. I'll catch up with you. There's something I need to do before I leave."

"I'm not leaving you," Niruin said.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine," Tom muttered. The intent of her bitter echo was apparently not lost on the elf, who crossed his arms and clenched his jaw. Tom braced herself for some clever retort, but he surprisingly didn't argue with her.

"All right," he said. "Be careful, will you?"

Tom smiled and handed him the locket. "Don't worry. I will."

Grimacing, Niruin hesitated before leaving. Tom watched as he snuck out the door before turning around. She headed toward the wall on the opposite side of the room. What Niruin didn't understand – what he could never understand – was that killing people wasn't an effective way of sending a message to keep people away. No matter how repulsive and immoral a person was, there was always someone out there who would seek justice for their murder, whether it be their family or associates or perhaps just the guards. In fact, experience had taught her that a terrible person was more likely to be avenged than an honest one. No, a message had to be louder than a couple deaths. There had to be destruction. The people had to fear not only losing their own lives, but losing everything else they held dear – their friends, their property, their legacy. Tom snatched a torch from the wall as her musings began to reignite the rage in her heart. Smiling to herself, she spun around to face the red banner that hung from the ceiling.

Tom could almost laugh at how foolish she had been to run from the power that lurked in her very soul. She had spent her whole life helpless, unable to protect those she had cared about, and what did she do when she finally had something worthwhile? She ran like a frightened child. Being the Dragonborn was a tremendous opportunity. Embracing this gift meant she never had to be afraid of anyone ever again. In fact, it meant others would have to fear her – just as they should. She was the one who had escaped, and if that meant being a coward, so be it. Being a hero meant dying young and being buried in a shallow grave if they were lucky enough to even be buried at all. Caro's body had been dumped in the lake, and he had been the bravest man she'd ever known, but she was so much more than that. She was a survivor. She was the Dragonborn, and how better for the Dragonborn to send a message than with fire?

Now grinning like a madman, Tom held the torch to the tapestry. The fabric quickly caught flame, and it stirred something deep inside of her. She recognized the feeling as the same sensation she had felt before Shouting at the sailor on the Dainty Sload. It was the word that had trembled on her lips and burned in her throat, the word she had read on the wall in the tomb. _Fus, _force. It was clear now. It's what she was – a force of nature – and no man or beast or god could stop her, but it wasn't enough. She needed more. As smoke filled the room, Tom dropped the torch on the ground and left the room. Swiftly navigating the halls, she made her way out of the caverns and into the forest. Once she was far enough from the Shadows, Tom stopped in the woods and looked up at the snow-covered trees as the cold, night wind nipped at her cheeks. The moons above lit the snow with an almost mystical glow. It was all so serene and lovely, but still the word called to her.

"_Fus!_"

The word poured from the Breton's mouth and shook the branches of the trees in front of her with the force of a horrible storm. She could still feel it on her tongue as she broke down laughing. Was it destiny or a dreadful oversight of the gods that she had inherited this power? It couldn't be destiny. She had been born an unfortunate wretch, a mistake that had her mother any sense she would have rectified by drowning the babe in the sea, but she hadn't. Perhaps it was indeed destiny. This was what had been her luck over the years, what had allowed her to evade death even when everyone around her had been struck down. Could she even be killed? She dismissed the thought at first, but it crept in her mind. Though it seemed like the ravings of a madman, in truth the notion wasn't any stranger than the idea of a ninety-pound Breton barely capable of lifting a sword being selected by the Divines to be a hero of legend.

By the time she arrived at Candlehearth Inn, Tom had all but forgotten the events preceding her epiphany. The innkeeper had already retired for the night and the building was as still as the grave as Tom made her way down the hall to the last room on the left. Inside, she found Niruin, still awake, lying on the bed and drinking from a bottle. As Tom entered the room, Niruin greeted her with dull surprise. Tom merely smiled at him as she dropped her bag on the floor. The Bosmer's lips twisted into suspicious frown, and he narrowed his eyes at her. She considered telling him the reason for her good mood, but the habits she had learned over years of living in secrecy got the better of her and Tom decided it was best she not tell him just yet.

"Took you long enough," he said. She could tell by his voice that he had been drinking for a while. "I was worried sick. Had t'snatch a bottle from behind the counter just to ease my troubled mind."

The elf chuckled to himself and took a swig from the bottle. Tom walked across the room and sat down on the bed next to him. He had already changed out of his armor, but his white shirt still held a matching red stain. Tom frowned and reached out to examine the wound. Instintively, Niruin batted her hand away and smiled apologetically.

"It's fine," he said. "Already took care of it. Still hurts a bit, but I'll live. Endell's a lucky bastard, but he's not that lucky."

"Well, I'm glad you're okay," Tom replied, quietly. She looked around the room. "Where's the locket?"

Niruin absentmindedly motioned towards the bedside table with his free hand. "In there. Figured I'd deliver it in the morning."

"I can do it," Tom said, eagerly. As the Breton hastily got up to retrieve the necklace, Niruin's face scrunched in distaste.

"It's the middle of the night, Tom," he reminded her, but Tom ignored him. She opened the drawer and grabbed the locket. Behind her, the Bosmer heaved a loud sigh of disapproval, and Tom shook her head before turning her gaze back towards him with the locket grasped firmly in her hand. With exasperation in his eyes, the elf glared up at her, and Tom smiled meekly in hopes to quell his concerns.

"Might as well do it now," she said. "Less to do in the morning, right?"

Niruin rolled his eyes. "Yes, go wake our future patron up. I'm sure that will go over _swimmingly_ with our review. Mercer will be ever so pleased to hear of it, don't you think?"

"It's not like I'm waking Torsten up to tell him we made tea," Tom replied, crossing her arms. Didn't he know there was no point in arguing with her any more? She was going to do as she pleased, and the rest of the Nirn would just have to make do. "This is a family heirloom. I think he'll appreciate that we got it back to him as soon as possible."

Exhaling, the elf took a sip from his bottle and leaned back against the wooden headboard. He appeared to be either too tired to continue arguing with her or simply out of smart remarks. "Fine, whatever. It's your job, anyhow."

"I'll be right back," Tom said.

The Breton slammed shut the drawer of the table shut and turned quickly on her heel to leave as Niruin grumbled a reluctant goodbye. As she stepped out of the inn, the night winds howled something terrible and bit at her bare skin, but she paid it no heed – not when she could howl back just as hard. Making her way through the snow-lined roads of Windhelm, she came upon the Cruel-Sea home. From the street, she could see the candle lights from the first floor still shining, albeit dimly, through the windows, indicating someone inside was still awake. Tom smiled to herself. Now surged with pride at the proof that she had been right, Tom sauntered up to the front door and knocked loudly against the wood. Inside, she could hear rustling and a man's voice grumble, "Hold on. I'm coming." After a couple minutes, the door opened to reveal Torsten Cruel-Sea, dressed in a fine robe as if he had been readying for bed. Visible surprise on his face, he looked the woman over before quickly stepping back from the door.

"Come inside, girl," the Nord said, smiling. "You'll catch your death out there."

The offer had not been what the woman had been expecting, but the almost fatherly concern in his tone made it hard to decline. Reluctantly, Tom obliged and cautiously stepped into the dimly lit house. Inside, it was not unlike the Snow-Shod manor back in Riften. The walls were adorned with ancestral swords and shields mounted on plaques and the trophied heads of animals. It was the strange thing about Skyrim. Even the wealthier Nords had such different tastes than the rich men of Cyrodiil did. Everything they owned reflected their brutal, steadfast ways. In the main room, a small lantern and a single book sat upon the dinner table, giving Tom a small insight to what the man had been doing before she had knocked on the door. As Tom curiously scanned the room, Torsten walked over to the firepit.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said in a low voice. "Just keep the noise down. The wife and son are asleep upstairs."

"All right," Tom replied, quietly. Slowly, she stepped up to the table and ran her hand over the mahogany. Though she had been inside houses twice as elegant as the Cruel-Sea's, she still felt a slight wonder at the wealth of others. Curiously, she peered down at the book on the table and attempted to make out the title – _The Song of Pelinal_. She knew the tale well. It was one of Lyra's favorites. She would gush for hours and hours over his brilliance and madness alike. Tom smiled softly at the memory.

"Have you read it?" Torsten's voice asked. The question quickly snapped the woman out of her nostalgia, and she immediately stared up at the Nord. He stood on the other side of the room watching over the kettle that hung over the hire. Embarrassed from her sudden shock, she bashfully shook her head and flipped open the book.

"No," she said quietly as she looked over the blurry words on the paper. "I don't read."

"Oh?" He sounded somewhat amused by her reply. "I never did meet a Breton who didn't read – no offense meant."

"Well, we're not all the stuffy know-it-alls the nobles of High Rock would have you believe," Tom replied in a slightly sarcastic tone. Chuckling, Torsten took the kettle from the spit and set it down from the table. Tom was unsure what to make of the man's unexpected hospitality, but something about the warm, intimate feel of the house made it hard for her to be suspicious of his intentions. Allowing herself to relax, Tom sat down in the closest chair as Torsten made his way to a nearby cabinet.

"Ah, so you're from High Rock, are you, girl?"

"No, Cyrodiil – Anvil, actually." Tom found herself surprised by the honesty of her answer. Smiling, the Nord returned to the table with two cups and a small pouch, which he set down next to the kettle.

"Anvil, now there's a good shipping town," the man said, before looking over at Tom. "Tea?"

"Um, sure."

Tom watched as the Nord took the leaves from the pouch and placed them into the cups. After pouring the hot water into both cups, he slid one of them over to Tom and sat down across from her. Quietly, Tom waited as the tea steeped, and out of habit, she watched for Torsten to drink from his cup before she did. Fortunately, the Nord didn't seem to notice. With gentle hands, she put the cup to her lips and took a small sip. As she did, the heat of the tea warmed her whole body, and upon realizing how cold she had been, she instinctively took a longer sip.

"This is really good," Tom commented.

Torsten waved his hand. "Idesa – the nursemaid, she gets the leaves from one of the other Dunmer in the city, says it's an old Morrowind custom. She won't tell us exactly what the leaves are. I think she's trying to keep her job secure for when Grimvar's grown."

Tom smiled. "Smart woman."

"Quite," Torsten agreed. He set down his cup and sighed before looking back at Tom with a sudden intensity in his eyes. "So by your appearance, I'm assuming you gave those Altmer what for."

"Yes," Tom replied quietly.

"Good," Torsten said. "Do you have the locket?"

Setting down her cup, Tom pulled the necklace from her pocket and handed it over to the Nord. Gently, Torsten took the locket from her, and his eyes glimmered as he held it in his hands. The tenderness of the moment made Tom a bit uncomfortable and she shifted in her seat as a small smile came over the man's lips.

"It pains me to see this," he said, quietly. "To be reminded of her –" He sighed and chuckled. "Look at me, getting sentimental over a piece of jewelry."

"It's all right," Tom said, uncertain of what else to say. "I'm sure she was a lovely girl. I'm deeply sorry for your loss."

"You're too kind," Torsten replied. "I hope you never have to experience this kind of loss."

His words didn't cut. No, instead they hit Tom like a war hammer to the rib cage, knocking her breathless. The irony of the situation overwhelmed her, and she was baffled by how she hadn't noticed the parallels until now. The only difference was that in her case, she _had_ been the guilty party. The Shadows had only picked the locket from the girl's corpse. Her emotions rose in her stomach, and she stood up too quickly, giving herself whiplash.

"I should go," she said. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"All right," Torsten replied. "Tell Delvin if he still desires my support, he's got it."

"I will."

As soon as she said this, Tom left the house in a haste. She had to get out. She had to get somewhere – somewhere else. As soon as she reached the street, Tom felt herself getting weak, and she leaned against the cold stone fence that bordered the Cruel-Sea home to keep herself standing. Tom told herself it was different. She tried to picture the Cruel-Sea girl, young and sweet and innocent. She hadn't deserved her fate. She hadn't deserved for her corpse to be raided by the Shadows. Then Tom forced herself to think of _him_. His handsome, horrible face burned in her memory, and she could feel the hatred pulsing through her body. Now shaking, Tom desperately clung to the stone, but still she remembered. His heavy hands, his terrible smirk, he had deserved his end, but even in death, he had still managed to ruin it all. His father – by the Eight, Tom imagined a guard captain meeting with the count, informing him of the murderers' demise. She imagined his face just as Torsten's had been, sad and relieved and –

"You stupid bitch," Tom grumbled to herself. Impulsively, she knocked her head against the stone in front of her and stumbled backwards. Sighing, Tom realized how mad she must have looked, panicking in an empty street and banging her head against stone. Tom took a couple deep breaths and headed back to the inn. As she walked, the thoughts kept creeping up. Her pace quickened as if that would keep the memories at bay, but they just clawed at her mind. She was no hero. That was for certain. It had been her misguided hero-complex that had gotten her into this mess in the first place, and she was definitely no survivor. A survivor would have been able to keep her friends alive and safe from harm. All she was was a coward. She had promised Caro she would keep Lyra safe. It had been the last thing she had ever promised him, and not only had she failed, but when she did, she didn't even have the strength to face her own death. No, she had begged like a dog for her life, and the only reason she was still breathing was because a man had taken pity on her. _Pity_ – it was a fitting word. She was pathetic.

As Tom reached Candlehearth, it took everything left in her to open the door. She thought about returning to the room, but she couldn't face Niruin in this condition. Slowly, Tom climbed the stairs up to the second story. The fire in the hearth still burned brightly, and it seemed to call to her. Walking over to the hearth, she sat down, and as she sat there, watching the flames dance across the pit, she soon found herself crying. The tears were, admittedly, a long time coming, and once she noticed them, she did nothing to stop them. Instead, she balled up on the floor and let it all out. She clawed and scratched at her skin as she replayed every scene in her life, trying to figure out how she could have prevented everything from going wrong. If she hadn't let Lyra get supplies in Bruma, Lyra would still be alive, but Caro would still be dead. If they hadn't trusted the thieves in the Imperial City, Caro would still be alive, but they'd still be on the run. The mistakes went further and further back until they nearly drove her mad. _It's not fair_, the words repeated in her head over and over.

Minutes passed, perhaps even an hour, and eventually, the woman had run out of tears to cry. She knew it was pointless to think of how to change the past, no matter how tempting the idea was. Sighing, Tom sat up and wiped the snot and tears from her face. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she turned her attention back to the fire place. There was no dragon inside her, or perhaps there was. Perhaps that's why she continued to make decisions that did nothing but cause destruction. Tom almost laughed at her own theatrics. No, she was not a destroyer. She was not a hero nor a villain. She was no one important – just a sad, paranoid little girl who had made too many mistakes, and perhaps it was time she owned up to them.

. . .

Groaning, Brynjolf scratched out the number and took a sip of his drink. He wasn't yet halfway done and already the numbers didn't look right. His brow furrowed as he ran the numbers again, but he got the same sum as before. The mistake must have been made earlier. Brynjolf sighed. At this rate, it would be nothing short of a miracle if he managed to record last month's finances before the end of Second Seed. Brynjolf considered delegating the task over to Vex or Delvin, but Vex already had her own project to supervise and Delvin had never been particularly gifted when it came to running numbers. Besides, as much as he loathed the work, it was his responsibility now. With Mercer off planning what he could only imagine was some legendary heist, it fell on Brynjolf's shoulders to do the finances and paperwork that Mercer usually oversaw. Once he had reminded himself it was for the good of the Guild, Brynjolf took a large swig from his glass and tore the past two pages from the ledger, but before he could begin again, he was distracted by the loud clamor of the cistern door being flung open by a boisterous Nord.

Brynjolf raised his weary eyes to see Vipir the Fleet strutting into the room. There was a large smile on the man's face as he commanded attention from the thieves sitting around the cistern. Once all eyes were on him, he raised his hands and announced to the room, "Tom and Niruin are back from Windhelm. Drinks are on the elf!"

It didn't take much else to convince the others to follow Vipir back into the tavern. The promise of free ale was enough to make them drop whatever it was they were doing and go celebrate their comrades' victory, but Brynjolf stayed behind despite how much he wished to follow him. Standing up, he gathered the scattered piles of completed contracts and other important papers that were spread across the desk and filed them into eight neat stacks, one for the contracts assigned to each of the thieves – excluding himself, Mercer, Vex, and Delvin – and then one extra pile for miscellaneous paperwork. Then from each of those stacks, he organized the contracts by the type of job.

Brynjolf went through the last pile first. Usually he saved those papers for last, but since it was the easiest to do, he decided that recording those numbers first would save him time in case he made another error while going through the contracts. The first paper was Erikur's letter of credit for the Solitude job. He recorded how much coin had been brought in from the Solitude job and subtracted how much Tom and Niruin had made from it, then recorded their earnings on the next page under their respective names. Then there was a paper where Mercer had written out all of the Guild's expenses for the month, including food, supplies, and Dirge's salary. It was followed by a letters of credit from Maven and Erikur. As patrons of the Guild, they were contractually obligated to pay the Guild five thousand septims a month, and in exchange, the Guild would do jobs for them free of charge.

The next papers were the sales records from Mallus Maccius. Brynjolf would be lying if he said he didn't somewhat enjoy going through those. Mallus had not yet learned the names of most of the thieves and had an amusing habit of calling them by nicknames. Brynjolf had made a bit of a game out of trying to figure out who the Imperial was referring to in his letters. A few of them were fairly obvious – "Ears" and "the elf" was clearly Niruin, and Sapphire was often referred to as "Doll Face," "the pretty, scowly girl," and more bluntly "the one with the great ass" – but others weren't as easy: "the dark haired one," which could be any number of people; "Tight Lips," which Brynjolf only realized was Thrynn after a reference to his build, and "the skinny one," which was used interchangeably for Tom and Niruin and could only be deciphered by pronoun usage. Of course, the most frustratingly vague of all of them was "Smartass." Brynjolf was a tad bit ashamed by how long it took him to realize "Doe Eyes" was a reference Tom.

After he had finished recording Maccius's sales, Brynjolf picked up an invoice from Vekel the Man. Unlike the fences, Vekel operated independently from the Guild. In theory, he and Syndus were businesses that just happened to be located in the den of a criminal organization. In practice, well, the members of said organization had a tendency to steal alcohol and break glasses and silverware. The expenses for Rain's Hand weren't that bad. There were only a dozen damaged tankards, a plate that had been thrown at a wall, several forks that had been bent out of shape, and an entire case of Black-Briar Mead that had mysteriously vanished. All and all, the denizens of the Ratway had done much worse in months past.

Finally, Brynjolf came to Tonilia's weekly sales. As he recorded the earnings, a couple of her notes stood out to him. "_Tirdas: Rune brought in a few gems (estimated worth 293) and bought a few lockpicks and bought that dagger Thrynn sold me yesterday (73 of that is yours). Cynric and Tom raided the Snow-Shod Manor. Had to give them a letter of credit until I can pawn all this junk off. Possibly brought in 356 septims from that. May want to give 'em a job together some time in the future. (So long as they don't have to speak to anyone.)_" "_Loredas: Sold wares to buyers, brought in 4423 for the Guild this week. Vipir sold me a ring. Claimed it had some special enchantment to protect the wearer from dragons in order to get more coin. Ran it by Vex. Turns out it has a weak protection against fire enchantment, but it's nothing special. Not sure if he was trying to cheat me or if he's just stupid enough to believe that. Will look into this._" "_Middas: Remember Vipir's ring? Niruin came in with a similar ring. Said he stole it from a merchant who claimed the exact same thing Vipir did. Someone out there's making coin off of people's panic over this whole dragon fiasco, and we should get in on it. You should run the idea by Mercer. Maybe he'll let you go topside again." _The idea of being allowed to return to swindling people out of their well-earned coined caught Brynjolf's attention, and he made a note to tell Mercer about it after he finished with the finances.

Then came the hard part. Finishing off his drink, Brynjolf looked to the contracts and began to go through them alphabetically, recording how much coin each contract had brought in and how much each thief had made off of it. Cynric Endell was the first, and by far one of the easiest. Most of his contracts were from Vex, save for one crumpled note scrawled in Delvin's barely legible script that read: "_Drunk. Told Endell he could have a bedlam job. Didn't have any on hand. Made one up. Paid him his standard for it. Don't tell Mercer. – Del._" Midway through working through his contracts, Brynjolf was interrupted by a hand slamming down on the desk, sending a few papers flying off the table. Startled, Brynjolf looked up to see Delvin standing over him. The man had a drunk's smile and reeked of spirits. It never ceased to amaze Brynjolf how quietly the old Breton could move even when he could barely stand.

"What do you need, Del?" Brynjolf said impatiently as he stood up to retrieve the papers. Shaking his head, Delvin crossed his arms and stood firmly.

"Come off it, Bryn," he replied. "You know exactly why I'm here."

An irritated frown crossed Brynjolf's lips as he reached down and grabbed a paper. He knew Delvin meant well, but if he ever wanted to get this work done, he was going to have to sacrifice a few drinks. "I'm sorry, but this really has to get done."

"Yeah, and you can do it tomorrow. One night off won't kill ya. It's a celebration."

"Del," Brynjolf replied sternly as he snatched the last paper from the ground. "I'm afraid I just can't. Mercer's going to want me to go to Windhelm either tomorrow or the day after, and then it'll be about a week before I can work on this again."

Frowning, Delvin sighed. "Could you at least go in and congratulate the girl? She did a better job than anyone could have asked for. You should really hear the elf tell the story. She got the locket back and set a damn banner on fire to keep the Shadows out of our hair. Shit, Niruin took an arrow for this job."

Brynjolf smiled softly. For all her eccentricities, Tom had proved to be more than worth the risk he had taken when he asked her to join the Guild. He was quite proud of how well she was doing, but that didn't change the fact that he had responsibilities to attend to. Walking back over to the table, Brynjolf set the papers down and sat down at his chair.

"Maybe later," he said as he turned his attention back to his work. Delvin sighed heavily and threw his hands up.

"Fine," the old Breton grumbled. He started back towards the Flagon, but before he got too far, he turned back around, adding, "You know you're turnin' into Mercer."

Brynjolf frowned. Mercer hadn't always been the snappish, weary man as he was now. In fact, Brynjolf could easily recall the man who had laughed over drinks after returning from some adventure with Karliah and Gallus. They had always been so tightlipped about those adventures, and in his youth, it had drove Brynjolf to maddening levels of curiosity. The three of them were such a queer group not only for their secrets, but for their personalities. Gallus Desidenius had been seemingly born to become a legend. Friendly and good-natured to a fault, he held power over the Thieves Guild in a way Mercer never could. He spoke, and people listened to him. They did what he ordered without question because Gallus could seemingly do no wrong. Brynjolf often wondered if his memories of Gallus were clouded by his youthful idealism, but even Delvin remembered him being larger than life.

Then there was Karliah. Brynjolf remembered her face better than he did Gallus's. She was possibly the coldest woman Brynjolf had ever met, but she was not cruel, at least not until that day. No, she was simply so withdrawn from the world that there was hardly any warmth in her soul. She rarely spoke, and when she did, her words were so soft that Brynjolf could scarcely hear her. Still there was something about her that must have captured Gallus's heart, and while Brynjolf could never quite know what it was, he understood it in his heart. She was no beauty, but she held this grace in her actions. She was always aware of the tiniest detail, the slightest movement, the smallest noise, and Brynjolf could remember how her wide eyes always seemed to be bearing into his when she looked at him. It was entrancing – haunting, even. She had used that power to ruin everything. Brynjolf could feel his anger swelling in his stomach at just the thought of her, so he turned his mind elsewhere.

Finally, there was Mercer. He had never been agreeable like Gallus nor had he been cold like Karliah. Brynjolf could still remember the first time he laid eyes on Mercer Frey. The image was burned into his memory. He had been sitting at a table in the Flagon next to Delvin, who barely even lifted his head to get a look at the new recruit. Gods, they were both so young in the memory. Delvin still had all his hair and teeth, but Brynjolf hadn't really been looking at him at the time. No, he had only been able to see Mercer. Young and arrogant, his lips had curled into a smirk as he kicked his feet up onto the table and leaned back in his chair. He had snickered as he asked, "And just what exactly are we supposed to do with him?"

"Go easy on him, Frey," Gallus had replied as he walked over to the bar. "Varys said he doesn't want you scaring off any more recruits."

Mercer's reply had been nothing more than a shrug and a mutter to Delvin. "Not my fault they're so sensitive."

"But it is your fault one of the got arrested," Delvin replied.

"What? I told him to run, didn't I?"

That was all Brynjolf had ever needed to know about Mercer. In many ways, Vex reminded Brynjolf of the man Mercer had once been. He was stubborn and ambitious and generally unpleasant to be around. That first year Brynjolf had been in the Guild, Mercer had gone out of his way to make sure Brynjolf was assigned the most degrading jobs possible, but he had taken them with his head held high and proved himself to be a competent thief. Mercer respected that, and eventually he laid off on his antagonism towards the boy, but he never truly got any more amiable. Being around Delvin and Gallus tended to temper him. Still, as disagreeable as he was, he had spirit. He laughed and gambled and made jokes, even if they were usually at other's expense. He was fiercely competitive, always making bets with Delvin on everything from who could open a lock first to who could bed the new barmaid at the Bee and Barb. That all changed the day he came back from Snow Veil Sanctum. Brynjolf had been in the Guild for six years by that point, and never had he seen Mercer Frey at a loss for words.

As Brynjolf continued with his work, he fought off Delvin's words. He told himself that wasn't possible, but it had started out like this for Mercer too. He began to spend less time in the Ragged Flagon and more time with his nose in the ledger. He slowly became irritated by everything people said to him, and eventually he stopped smiling all together. In his head, Brynjolf replayed his earlier conversation with Delvin, and he knew the man's statement was true. He had been curt and irritable and everything Mercer had been, only it was happening quicker this time around. Disgusted by his actions, Brynjolf closed the ledger. He would work on this tomorrow. Right now, he needed a break and a stiff drink. As he rose up to head off to the Flagon, he noticed that he wasn't alone in the cistern. Tom sat on her bed, absentmindedly picking at her lip. Taken aback, Brynjolf examined her curiously, wondering how long she had been sitting there. He hadn't heard her come in. As he approached the girl, her wide eyes suddenly locked with his.

"Oh, sorry," Tom said. "Was I talking to myself? I wasn't – I didn't mean to disturb you."

"No," he replied cautiously.

"Oh good," Tom replied. Smiling, she sat up and crossed her legs. The way she was moving, it was evident that she'd had her fair share of liquor for the night. "Sometimes when I'm thinking, I say things aloud without – without even noticing."

"That's all right," Brynjolf replied. "To be honest, I didn't even notice you were in here until just now."

In a strange fit of bashfulness, Tom giggled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Brynjolf knew he hadn't gotten a good look at her in a while, but she seemed to have changed dramatically in her appearance since he last did. Her hair had grown out to what was almost an acceptable female length, and she seemed to have gained a bit of weight, making her slightly less skeletal than the girl who had picked his pocket almost half a year ago, but her face and figure were still boyish as ever. It wasn't fair to call her plain, a word that suggested commonplace. Her wide eyes, possibly the only feminine feature about her, could be recognized in a heartbeat, and the rest of her features couldn't be considered nondescript either, but still Brynjolf thought her plain. She wasn't ugly, but there was something about Tom that evoked a strange sentiment in him. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't place just who.

"I have that effect," Tom said softly and it took Brynjolf a second to remember she was replying to his words not his thoughts. He chuckled nervously and looked around.

"It's been awhile since we've had a chance to talk. Do you mind if I sit down?"

"By all means," Tom replied, gesturing to the foot of her bed. Brynjolf sat down as she rolled her head back and leaned against the wall. "But I'm afraid you've caught me at a bad time. I may not be the best talker right now."

"Implying you're ever good at talking," Brynjolf joked.

Tom laughed and sighed. "True, true."

"So what are you doing in here?" Brynjolf asked. "Don't feel like playing the hero to your legion of admirers?"

"No, no, I'm not a hero," Tom said, frowning. Despite her drunkenness, Brynjolf picked up a strange sincerity in her objection to the term. "Not to them, not to anybody. At best, I'm a reason for free drinks."

"I hate to break it to you lass," Brynjolf replied, "but that makes you a hero around these parts."

Tom wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips. "Cynric says I'm a hero 'cause I make the Guild coin and my sheer existence annoys Vex."

"That sounds like something he would say."

"He was a bit drunk when he said it," she replied, smiling again. Her eyes widened as if she had just accidentally let a secret slip, and Brynjolf couldn't help but grin at her expression. "But don't tell him I told you that. He was awfully embarrassed by it."

"Don't worry. I won't," Brynjolf jokingly promised. "But really, lass, is there a reason you came in here? Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, quietly. Her eyes were overcome with a strange sadness as she paused and then asked him, "Old wounds never really heal, do they?"

The weight of the question caught Brynjolf off guard. A part of him wanted to console the girl and tell her whatever it was that was upsetting her, it would get better with time, but Brynjolf knew better than that. Only minutes ago, simply thinking about Karliah had awoken a rage inside of him that he had forgotten was there. Awkwardly rubbing his neck, he frowned and considered his answer.

"No, I suppose they don't," Brynjolf replied. Tom's lips twitched as she began to sink down onto the bed. Brynjolf felt a twinge of sympathy for the girl, and he forced himself to smile. "Can I ask what old wound's been opened up, or am I going to be met with deflection?"

"Probably deflection," she answered. She hummed as she rubbed her hand against her eye and rested her head on her shoulder. Her eyes flickered up to meet Brynjolf's again, and her expression became rather serious considering her state of mind. "While we were on the job, Niruin was shot."

"I heard about that," he replied. "I'm assuming it wasn't anything serious considering the fact that he's out there buying everyone drinks right now."

"It doesn't matter. He went down, lost his footing – or something. Shit, I don't know. But I lost it when he did. I thought he was dead and I just – Mara, I wasn't supposed to care about you people."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Brynjolf replied, chuckling.

Rubbing her palms against her brows, Tom slowly shook her head. "Shit, I didn't mean – it's just the truth. I shouldn't care. I shouldn't have lost it. I believe you now, what you said about family." She grinned, and her voice cracked a little as she spoke. "This Guild _is_ a family, and this damned sewer, it's my home. It's just – never mind. It's just sometimes I don't think I belong here."

"That's fine," Brynjolf replied with a casual shrug of his shoulders. "Nobody expects you to feel right at home overnight."

"I mean I'm grateful you let me in," Tom said. "Believe me I am. By the Eight, as much as I hate to admit it, thieving's about the only thing I've ever been good at."

Brynjolf chuckled and crossed his arms. "I know how you feel, lass. This about the only job I could ever do. I was always lousy farmer."

"And I was a dreadful barmaid," Tom replied. She pursed her lips. "And a dockworker, for that matter. I mean, look at me. I'm never going to be good with the sword or forge or anything that requires blunt strength. As much as Niruin tries to teach me, I'm not particularly good with the bow either. I know a couple spells, but I'm really no wizard. My needlework is shameful. All I'm really good at is picking locks, climbing, and not being noticed. What _else_ was I supposed to do?"

There was an odd hint of hysteria in her voice as she finished her sentence. Tom must have noticed it herself because she abruptly frowned again and blushed as she turned her head away from Brynjolf. He had forgotten how difficult it was to talk to Tom. At any second, he knew she would come up with some harebrained excuse to leave, as she typically did whenever she caught herself opening up, but instead, she grinned and tilted her chin.

"So you were a farmer?" Tom asked. Brynjolf knew the girl was intentionally changing the subject, but she wasn't leaving. That alone was progress, at least.

"Aye," Brynjolf answered. "Well, I was the son of a farmer. Never owned my own farm, but I grew up harvesting crops and tending to chickens. Terrible creatures, chickens. I'll take the skeevers over them any day."

Tom held her hand to her mouth to conceal a giggle. "I'm sorry. I just can't see you ever doing honest work – hoeing fields, chasing down chickens. It's silly, but I guess I always assumed you were always in the Guild, like some street rat they used to get information or something."

"No, no," Brynjolf replied. "I'm afraid my childhood was far duller than that. My father owned a small farm on the very edge of the Pale, right on the border of Whiterun."

"What made you leave?" she asked.

Brynjolf shrugged. He hadn't talked to anyone about his life before the Guild in a long time. Most of the thieves either already knew his story or never cared to ask. "Like I said, I was never any good at the work. Besides, I was one of the younger children in a large family, and it was a _very_ small farm so staying around was never really an option. By the time I was ten, my father had already promised the farm to my brother Halbjorn after my eldest brother, Valgeir, ran off with a bandit gang. After that, I had no intention of ever staying. You couldn't keep Halbjorn and me in the same room together, growing up. Absolutely no sense of humor, that one. Shor's beard, Mercer's a court jester compared to him."

"I can't imagine," Tom said. "Exactly how many of you were there?"

"Eight, including my parents," Brynjolf answered. "By the time I left, there were only five of us left, though. Ma died soon after Valgeir ran off, and my older sister married this skinny, milk-drinking Imperial merchant. I occasionally write my younger sister." – He thought of the girl with the bright orange hair, her mother's hair. She had looked at him as if he were a stranger at their father's burial. – "But not enough. What about you, lass? Did you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Oh me? No," Tom answered, much to Brynjolf's surprise. "My mother died when I was barely more than a babe. Sure, there were a good deal of us at the orphanage, you know, with the war with the elves having just ended, lots of children left without parents and all – but none of them ever felt like family."

"The war?" Brynjolf repeated, laughing. She had to be lying again. "You can't possibly mean the Great War."

"What's so strange about that?"

"That was over twenty-five years ago, lass."

"I keep telling you people I'm not that young," Tom said, shrugging, "but you never seem to listen."

Brynjolf began to believe that for once Tom was perhaps telling the truth. She certainly wasn't doing that deadpan that usually gave her away, but that could just be the spirits. Before he could press the subject, she directed the topic of their conversation away from her.

"So, how did you join the Guild, then?" she asked.

"Ah, now that's a long story," Brynjolf answered.

"I have time," Tom said. Her brown eyes stared at his face as she said this, and for a second, Brynjolf found her warm, but the feeling quickly passed as he realized exactly what it was about her that was so uncanny. There was something peculiar about the way Tom looked at things. She always seemed to be staring, as if she was always fully aware of her surroundings so she could carefully calculate her reactions to every possible scenario that could arise. And yet, despite this alertness or perhaps because of it, there was a haunting emptiness to in her eyes, a hollowness that denied her any warmth in her demeanor even when she smiled and laughed and acted as if she were just any other woman. She was not all there, but Brynjolf could tell she was trying her hardest to fake it.

"Well, then," Brynjolf began, "I was in Whiterun with my brother. I had to be about eighteen at the time. We were selling our harvest to the general goods store, or rather, he was. He never let me barter. He was too proud to admit he had the social skills of a mudcrab and didn't want to give me the satisfaction of showing him up. No, I was standing outside the store, looking at this stall that had been left unattended. It had been a harsh summer, most of the crops had died, and I knew we weren't going to get much out of the grocer. The stall was a jeweler. Now, I didn't have much use for jewelry, and I wasn't sure when I'd get a chance to sell them, but I figured jewelers bring in a heavy amount of coin, right?"

Tom smiled. "So you stole their money."

"Talos, no," Brynjolf replied, waving his hand dismissively. "The Whiterun markets always horribly crowded around harvest time, and even if I did want to risk it, I wasn't sure I could even pick the lock, but I was thinking about it when this man comes up to me and tells me he couldn't help but notice my interest in the stall. I, of course, deny it, but he persists. Says he need to get a gem from the lockbox and could use my help with distracting the crowd."

"Was that Gallus?"

"Aye. In hindsight, he didn't need me at all. Even with the crowd, Gallus could have picked the lock, stolen the gem, and gotten out of the city before anyone was the wiser. I think he saw something in me. Anyway, after a couple minutes of thinking it over, I agree to do it. After all, I was just a distraction. The guards couldn't prove I was involved. All I had to do was to think of a way to divert the attention of the crowd, and that's when I saw her, the innkeeper's daughter. She was a beautiful thing back then, and she was arm-in-arm with this real tough looking man, kind of man who's just waiting to get in a fight with someone."

Brynjolf continued on with the story, telling her how he had waited until the two separated and went over to charm the young woman and how her man had stormed over in a jealous rage. As he told his tale, Brynjolf realized how he could no longer recall the image of the man's face, the pain of the punch to the jaw, what the guards had said as they broke up the fight, the sound of Gallus's laugh as he paid the young Nord for his troubles. The story wasn't so much a recollection as it was words that had been written into his memory like ink on a page. This troubled Brynjolf a little, but Tom continued to ask her questions, which led to more stories. Some Brynjolf could remember with perfect clarity, but most were the same as the first, empty words with no faces to the names and no sounds to the voices. Yet, there were still a few he had forgotten with time, only for them to come suddenly flooding back to him. He had recanted those stories with an almost childish eagerness in his voice, but Tom didn't seem to mind. She just smiled and listened, and after a while, she was no longer even a part of the conversation.

This went on for what must have been hours, but Brynjolf didn't notice. He was too busy reminiscing over a better time, when it really meant something to be part of the Riften guild. After a while, the other thieves started entering the cistern in drunken stupors. One by one they collapsed on their beds and fell into their slumbers until eventually it was only the two of them still awake. Tom sat up and stretched out her arms, yawning. That was when he noted how much he had been talking. The girl must have been bored out of her mind, and either too polite or drunk to say anything about it.

"Sorry, lass," Brynjolf said, somewhat embarrassed. "I didn't mean to talk your ear off."

"No, no, it's fine," she replied, chuckling. "I really don't mind. Just tired, is all."

Brynjolf got to his feet. "Then I should let you go. I still have a mountain of paperwork that needs tending to."

"Good luck with that," Tom replied almost sarcastically. Bidding her goodbye with a gesture of his hand, Brynjolf turned and headed back to Mercer's desk, but before he could get more than a few feet, the girl's hesitant voice called him back.

"Brynjolf."

Instinctively, the Nord turned his head back towards the girl. She was still sitting on the bed in the same spot as where he'd left her, but a troubled frown had replaced her grin. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry about being so difficult when we first met," she said, and then paused for a second. "I think I misjudged you."

Brynjolf chuckled. "It's quite all right, lass. I don't think I'd trust me either, in all honesty."

"You know you're not half bad," she said. There was a smile on her lips as she spoke, but her tone held a certain sadness, perhaps even regret. Brynjolf smiled back kindly.

"You aren't so bad either, lass."

. . .

She dreamed of the sea. The clear waters sparkled under the hot afternoon sun as she stood at the end of the dock. A familiar voice called out to the woman, beckoning her into the deep, but before she could take the plunge, a crow landed on the post next to her. It looked at the woman, cocked its head, and flew off. She followed the bird through a city in decay. The charred frames of what were once buildings still stood like skeletons left behind after a terrible war. She could hear women screaming in the distance and soldiers barking orders at people to return to their houses, but the city itself was quiet and empty. No people walked the streets. No bodies could be found. The crow led her past a ruined temple where it stopped in the courtyard, landing on top a mausoleum the woman knew all to well. She crouched down and pressed the button on the stone coffin, and the floor opened up.

The woman continued down into the tunnels under the city. Rats scurried past her feet and lead her to a tavern. She was relieved to see people standing around the bar. They all drank and gambled and laughed, but she recognized none of them. Desperately, the woman ran from person to person, trying to find just one familiar face – Niruin, Brynjolf, Tonilia, Rune, Delvin, Cynric. Even the sight of Vex would be a comfort, but they could not be found. Not that it seemed to matter. The criminals simply continued on with their conversations and games, ignoring the woman to the point that she wondered if she could be seen. As she walked away from the bar, she caught sight of the crow again. It was perched atop a door frame, staring at the woman with its beady eyes. As she approached the it, the bird let out a small caw, and in the strange haze of the dream, it sounded almost sympathetic.

"Yes, yes," the woman said, bitterly. She was all too aware that she was speaking to an animal. "I get it. You're very clever."

The bird simply stared at her in response.

"You're saying there's no place for me here anymore. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out. Well, guess what? I'm staying. I happen to like it here, and I don't want to leave."

The crow replied with a second caw, louder this time, more stern. It flew off though the door frame, and the woman rolled her eyes before reluctantly going after it. It led her up a flight of stairs, at the top of which there was a door. She opened it to find herself at the edge of a farm. The land around her still held the warm green of summer, but in front of her, a terrible blizzard loomed just outside the farm's fence. Without so much as a caw, the crow flew out into the storm, and the woman found herself at a standstill. It was either go forward or head back to the tavern, but for once, she honestly didn't know where to go. She walked towards the fence. Leaning up against the post, she stared out into the blizzard. It seemed to be getting closer.

"You're going to have to choose sooner or later," a voice said to her. She knew who it was before she even turned her head, and it wasn't fair. Give her Lyra or Caro or Brynjolf – anyone but him. Standing not five feet away from her was a thin elf. He smiled at her and looked back over towards the storm. "I don't blame you though. I wouldn't want to go out in that weather either."

"Faerin, I–"

It didn't matter what she said. He wasn't there. None of it was. As her eyes flittered open, Tom found herself in the cistern. She buried her head into her pillow and pulled her blankets up to her chin. She told herself that if she didn't leave her bed, she wouldn't have to do anything, but she knew that wasn't true. If she stayed in her bed too long, someone would inevitably tell her that she had to either get a job done or leave the Guild – not that particularly mattered anyway. Tom had made her decision on the long ride back to Riften from Windhelm. It was just a matter of telling Brynjolf. She had meant to do it the night before, but in her drunken state, she hadn't been able find it in her heart to tell him any bad news. Tom had meant it when she told him she had misjudged him. For all his faults, Brynjolf did care deeply about the Guild and the people he looked over. It was almost heartbreaking listening to him talk of those who had preceded her, those who he had befriended and trusted, and they had repaid his kindness by leaving. He had already lost so much, and she was about to abandon him too.

Forcing herself to sit up, Tom scanned the cistern for Brynjolf. It was dark and relatively empty, giving the Breton the impression she had slept longer than she'd intended. Sapphire and Thrynn were having a meal on the other side of the room, talking quietly to each other, but more importantly, Brynjolf wasn't at his desk. Tom grumbled to herself and threw the blankets from her body as she got up. She didn't want to have to confront him in the tavern, not with everyone around. It pained her to think of having to say it in front of the others. Gods, she didn't even want to think of what she would say to Niruin. Maybe she wouldn't have to. Maybe she could just pack up her things and leave without so much as a note.

_No_, Tom thought to herself. She owed them more than that. Sitting down next to her footlocker, she grabbed her weathered, old pack from the top and smiled to herself. Cynric was right. The old bag wasn't going to last much longer. Opening the chest, Tom carefully took her folded clothes from the chest and placed them in the bag. She packed away her gold and bow as well, but as she retrieved her dagger, she was struck with an unshakable curiosity. Unsheathing the blade, she examined her reflection in the cold metal. Tom thought of that last morning before she had joined the Guild, before she had framed Brand-Shei, and she found that it was not the same woman looking back at her. Her face was less gaunt; her features, softer. Her eyes were still as empty and wild as ever, but they had grown tamer, kinder. Maybe she had found that something she'd been missing, or perhaps she had simply gotten a good night's sleep. Nevertheless a strange nostalgia overcame her, and Tom smiled despite herself and sheathed the blade, before tossing it into her pack. She packed up the last few of her possession and closed the chest.

Tom stood up and slung the pack over her shoulder. It was heavier than she had expected, but she couldn't leave anything behind. Sighing, she headed for the tavern. She still had to find Brynjolf and tell him the bad news. As she opened the door, she could hear a rather loud argument coming from the tavern. Tom shook her head. On any other day, this would be a reason to stay in the cistern, but she found herself curious.

"Bah, what do you know about women, old man?" Tom recognized the laughing voice as Vipir the Fleet's. "Been ten years since I saw you so much as glance at a woman."

"All I know that after a night with me," – a drawl, Cynric's – "they aren't asking '_Is that it?'_ You could stand to learn a few things from me, boy."

"You _would_ like to teach me a few things, wouldn't you?"

"Heh, don't act like you wouldn't like it."

A couple male voices _oooh_'ed in anticipation for Vipir's reply. There was a feminine exhale, most likely Tonilia. It didn't sound nearly contemptuous enough to be Vex. "Will you two quit flirting?"

"He started it."

"Didn't I give you a job to do, Endell?"

"All right, all right. I'm out, but this isn't over Fleet-Feet," Cynric shouted the words before stumbling backwards into the hallway and into Tom's line of sight. In one hand, he held a the strap of his pack and in the other, a bottle of mead. Tom stopped walking as the man turned towards her. Still grinning, the man took a swig from his bottle. "Well, look who's awake. We were just about to send someone in to check if you were still breathing."

"How long was I out?" Tom asked.

"I don't know. 'Bout a day. I haven't seen you since you were talking to Brynjolf last night." Cynric paused. "What was going on there?"

"We were just talking," Tom replied. She smiled and peered over the man's shoulder. "Is Brynjolf in there?"

"No, the big lug left for Windhelm around noon. Probably won't be back for a week. Delvin and Vex are in there if you need one of the higher ups."

Tom frowned. She wasn't particularly sure what to do now. She could simply leave, but the thought of going without so much as a word didn't sit well on her conscience. She could wait for Brynjolf to come back, but that could lead to her changing her mind about leaving. It had to be today, or she might never go. As she scratched at the side of her neck, Tom shook her head slowly. "No, it's fine. I just wanted to speak with him personally."

"Oh?" Cynric replied. The word was accompanied by a slight quirk of his eyebrows, and Tom found herself grinning once more. How the thieves did love their gossip, and as much as the Breton man would like to pretend he was above such frivolities, he was no exception.

"You know," she said, "for someone who claims to care so little about what people do, you're a dreadful gossip. You know that, right?"

"All right, all right. I'll take your word," Cynric said. He leaned back against the door to the Ratway Vaults. "So what did you need to talk to him about if it wasn't what I was thinking?"

"Oh, nothing," Tom replied. "It's not important."

Cynric's smile faded for a second as Tom caught his eyes glance at her pack. Awkwardly shifting the bag slightly behind her, Tom vainly tried to draw as little attention to it as possible. Fortunately, Cynric didn't call it out. He simply grinned and stood back up. "Well, Tonilia needs me to go deliver this bag to someone just outside of town. If you don't have anything better to do, you can come with."

Tom smiled softly. She could almost hear the man tacking on "or not, I don't care" to the end of that sentence. Feelings of camaraderie or even affection were just another frivolity Cynric deemed himself above, and though Tom knew she had more important matters at hand, the offer of a few last moments as one of the family tempted her something terrible.

"Nothing important springs to mind," she said and shrugged. Smirking, Cynric slung the bag over his shoulder and headed past Tom, entering the cistern without so much as a second word to her. Tom followed him toward the ladder that lead to the Riften cemetery. After they both climbed up into the small room above the cistern, Cynric pulled on the chain and made a face as the stone rolled back with that terrible mechanical screech that Tom had become so accustomed to hearing.

"You know," Cynric commented in a grumble, as the stone opened to reveal the dark night sky above, "I've been in this Guild for twenty years now, and every year Mercer promises to fix that damn noise."

Snickering, Tom walked up the steps out into the cemetery with Cynric following behind her. The moons were both high above the city, and the night air was comfortably warm as Cynric took the lead down the back alleys of Riften toward the front gate.

"By the way, kid," he said to Tom, "the correct term is snoop."

Tom furrowed her brow. "What?"

"I'm a horrible snoop, not a gossip," he answered. "Gossip implies I share the information I gather."

"You tell me things," Tom replied.

"Yeah, well–" Cynric paused. "That's _tactical_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, kid," he said in an inscrutable tone. He waved his hand as if that alone would dismiss her concerns, but Tom was unconvinced.

"You're such a liar. A liar and a _snoop_."

Chuckling, the man turned his head back towards her. A terrible smirk crossed his lips as it often did before he was about to say something that would make her uncomfortable. "So what's with the bag, girl? You pick up a contract last night or something?"

"It's full of weapons, actually," Tom deadpanned. "I'm luring you out of the city so I can murder you and run off with your coin."

"Figures about right. The elf put you up to it, didn't he?"

"No, he doesn't know a thing about it," Tom said, continuing the joke with a smile. "I'm hoping with you out of the way we can finally be together."

"Hah, fat chance." Chuckling, Cynric stopped and turned towards Tom. The smirk stayed on his lips, but as he looked her over, his eyes didn't convey the same lightheartedness. Tom could feel her confidence slipping as the Breton man leaned against the city wall and took a sip from the bottle. "But really, though, what's with the bag, kid?"

"Like you said," she answered with little conviction, "I got a contract last night."

Cynric rolled his eyes. "Oh, and I'm the liar."

"Shut up, you're awful," Tom said, smiling again. Cynric responded with a mere shrug of his shoulders as he continued on his way. Shaking her head, Tom followed after him. "What's got you in such a good mood any way?"

"I could ask you the same question," he said. He took one last sip from the bottle before carelessly tossing it on the ground. "You're rather friendly today, aren't you?"

"I asked you first."

"All right, well, before Brynjolf left, I caught him talking to Delvin about a project he's going to run by Mercer once he gets back. I'm not going to get into specifics, but I'll probably get the job since they need an infiltrator, and Vex's got her own project to work on. Besides, Delvin says this could possibly cause a lot of trouble for the Guild if we get caught so they want someone reliable – you know, someone who can be in and out before anyone notices. While I might not have the flair of Vex or Vipir or you for that matter, I do have a better track record than them." Cynric looked over his shoulder at her before adding one last jab. "And unlike you, I'm not particularly caught up on being moral."

"I don't have flair," Tom said quietly.

"You have something, girl. I'll give you that," Cynric muttered as they turned a corner and approached the city gate. Even from behind his helmet, Tom could almost feel the distrust in the guard on duty's eyes as he looked the two over. It occurred to Tom that she wasn't quite sure just what type of delivery this was, but she hesitated to ask. Knowing the Guild, it was entirely possible she didn't want to know what he had in the bag. Still, with both of them dressed in plainclothes, neither Tom nor Cynric appeared worthy of suspect to the average eye, but that was the strange thing about Riften. The guards knew who the face of every member in the Guild, but so long as the thieves weren't caught doing anything the guards let them be, albeit reluctantly in some of the nobler guards' cases. This guard in particular seemed suspicious of the pair's intentions as after a moment of deliberation, he sighed and addressed the pair.

"You two stay out of trouble," his Nordic voice commanded as he opened the gate. "Understand?"

"Of course, sir," Cynric replied with his usual impertinence. His gaze flickered over to Tom. "Ladies first."

Tom exited through the gates to see a cart rolling off in the distance. Guessing by the positions of the moons, it was probably the last carriage of the night. Tom frowned. This would mean walking the entire way. She could always wait until morning for another cart – but no, it had to be tonight. This was not something she could put off any longer. Not too far off, Tom noticed a Khajiiti caravan had set up camp just outside the city. As the gate closed behind them, Cynric placed his hand on her shoulder, and Tom nearly jumped at his touch.

"Wait here, kid," he said, unfazed by her surprise. "I'll be right back."

Tom leaned back against the walls of the city as Cynric walked over to the caravan. As she watched him barter with the Khajiit, she contemplated her situation. If she started walking now, she could be in Ivarstead by midday tomorrow. The town would probably have an inn she could stay at for the night and then start the perilous hike up the six – no, seven-thousand steps. Tom could almost shudder at the thought of walking up all seven-thousand of them, but she had to do something. She couldn't hide from her destiny any longer. Eventually, Cynric finished his business with the caravan and jogged back over to her. Tom sighed and looked away. She would have to tell him.

"I'll give the Khajiit one thing," the man said as he leaned against the wall next to Tom and crossed his arms. "They are horribly stubborn when it comes to bartering."

"What was that about?" Tom asked. Cynric waved it off.

"Oh, nothing."

"Was it skooma? Believe it or not, I don't care about that."

"Woah, woah, who said it was skooma? Where'd you get that idea? Because they're cats? That's a little stereotypical of you don't you think, girl."

Giggling slightly, Tom rolled her eyes. She could tell by now when he was trying to get a reaction out of her. "Vex is right. You _are_ insufferable."

The older thief chuckled, but he didn't respond. He was quiet for a moment, and Tom tried to find the courage to tell him, but before she could, he tapped his fingers against his arm and smirked. "Well, I suppose this is where we part ways."

Tom raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. "You going somewhere?"

"No, but you are," Cynric said, and Tom shook her head in disbelief.

"Why do you always do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"That whole, cryptic _'I know your secrets'_ thing," Tom replied. Her tone was more teasing than accusatory. "_Oh, I know you're from Cyrodiil. Oh, don't think I haven't noticed you're not as young as everyone thinks you are. Oh, I know you're leaving._ Do you enjoy doing it? Is it because it makes people uncomfortable?"

"In my defense, anyone can tell the first two things if they pay enough attention to you. Your accent's unmistakeably Colovian, and no offense, kid, but if you weren't so slim-hipped no one would think you were as young as they do As for knowing you were leaving, well–" His voice became strangely somber, and the smirk left his lips. "When I asked, you wouldn't give me a straight answer, and every other recruit Brynjolf's dragged back to the Flagon has left – or died, in Britta's case. Mara, that was awful. " He grimaced at the thought and sighed again. "Anyway, I guess I never thought you'd be any different."

"That's rather cynical," Tom said.

The man's mouth twitched, and he shrugged his shoulders. "It's just the way it is. You get used to it. The Guild's dying, girl, whether the others want to admit it or not. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad you joined up. The business you brought in should keep us afloat for another five years or so, but it's not going to change anything in the long run."

Tom didn't know how to respond to that. Finally, she quietly replied, "If it makes a difference, I don't want to leave. I just, I have to go."

"Well in that case, that changes everything."

Tom smiled and glanced over at him. "Really?"

With disbelief in his eyes, Cynric glared over at her and made a face. "No. Of course not." He snickered and shook his head. "Tiber Septim's left nut, kid, how would that make a difference?"

Laughing, Tom instinctively punched the man in the shoulder. "You're just awful."

"I know, I know," Cynric replied. He rubbed the area where she had hit him. "By the gods, kid, for a such a small girl, you can hit."

"I'm sorry," she said, smiling. It was quiet again, and Tom could feel the finality in the air. She had felt this feeling before – on the day Caro first started working on the ship, the day Faerin moved to Chorrol with his wife, the day of Lyra's wedding – except this time, it wasn't Tom who was being left behind. She had meant it when she said she didn't want to go. Perhaps the Guild wasn't her family, but when she stopped fighting it long enough to see it, she knew they were her friends, and despite everything, she knew she would miss it when she was gone. After a moment of silence, Cynric stood up straight and looked off at the road.

"Well, I should let you go," he said with a smile. "I'll tell the others for you."

"I wasn't planning on just running off without saying goodbye."

"I know," he replied. "You were going to tell Brynjolf, but he isn't here. So I'll tell him for you." He shook his head and grinned. "Oh, he is not going to be happy with me, letting his star protege get away, but he'll get over it."

"Are you sure it'll be okay?" Tom asked. "Brynjolf had a lot riding on me working out from the talk of it."

Once again, Cynric waved off her concerns. "Oh, that? I doubt Mercer even remembers that threat. Besides, he can't afford to fire Brynjolf right now. Any way, you brought in a lot of coin in the past couple months. I can't say the old man will be happy you're gone, but he's not going to hold it against Bryn."

"All right," she said, quietly. "Could you maybe tell him I'm sorry."

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it," Cynric said, making the same mocking face he did when Niruin nagged him. "I'll also tell the elf you love him, and I'll tell Vipir that this doesn't mean he still doesn't owe you that twenty gold. Anything else."

Tom giggled and shook her head before looking up at Cynric. "I'll miss you."

"Oh, please don't get all _feelings_ on me," Cynric replied in an uncomfortable grumble. He paused and smiled, and for once in the whole time Tom had known him, his smile was devoid of any irony or smugness. It was the most genuine she had ever seen him. "But I'll probably miss you too, kid, and if whatever you're leaving for doesn't work out, well, you're welcome back in the Guild any time."

"I doubt I will," Tom said. She didn't mean to be harsh, but given the severity of the task she was about to undertake, she doubted she would even be alive once it was all over. "But thank you."

"No problem," Cynric said, grinning. He motioned towards the road with his head. "Now, I'm going to get out of here before one of us starts crying, 'cause it isn't going to be me, and if you start crying, I'll just get uncomfortable and leave, and you'll get mad at me for abandoning you. It will completely ruin our friendship and be just awful for everyone."

Tom laughed. "How gentlemanly of you."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a real charmer," he replied, sarcastically. Tom readjusted her pack on her shoulder and stood up straight, readying herself to go. Cynric, likewise, started heading for the gate. "I'll see you around, Tom."

Tom watched as the man headed back into the city. Once he slipped through the gate and out of sight, Tom exhaled and turned her attention to the road. For a moment, she couldn't find the will to move from her spot. After a couple minutes of just staring out at the road in front of her, taking in what would probably be the last minutes of her time in Riften, she finally took a deep breath and started on her way.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Notes: <em>To be honest, I hate this chapter. I don't like how certain parts feel. I don't like how I wrote parts. I just feel like it's thrown together and messy, but I told myself I'd have it up by the end of the week because I needed to finish it. Also, I'm really sorry for that unannounced five month hiatus. I will never, ever do it again, I promise. Please don't hate me.


	9. Chapter Nine: Tests

Chapter Nine: Tests

If the Gods had intended this as penance for her crimes, the Breton would not be in the least bit surprised. Bundled in heavy furs, the woman had climbed step after step up the mountainside for what felt like hours. She couldn't be sure how long she had been doing this. It had been about daybreak when she left Ivarstead, but as she got higher and higher up the mountain the sun kept disappearing behind the thick, white clouds. Not that it mattered, the harsh winds kept blowing blinding flurries of snow in the woman's face if she dared to lift her head to look any higher than the step directly in front of her. She knew it was still day time at least. Everything was still too white and grey for it to be sunset. Tom had lost count of the steps at least a dozen times now. The first time she had gotten to nearly two hundred before getting distracted, and she had gotten to over one hundred at least twice. She had stopped even bothering to count hours ago and had taken no breaks since starting her journey that morning. She had to be at least a quarter of the way to the top, if not even closer. If she wasn't – no, she couldn't even consider the possibility.

Still, Tom kept walking. She had come too far to stop now. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other had become the only thought in her head, if only to keep her mind off the unbearable cold. Even within her thick gloves, her fingers had stiffened into a clench, frozen in place, and she had lost all feeling in her feet. She knew she wouldn't be able to keep this up much longer. Her body was too tired, too frozen, too broken. If she didn't at least rest for a minute, she was going to collapse, and then what - freeze to death right there on the steps only to be found by the next pilgrim making the journey? That wouldn't be a particularly noble end for the Dragonborn. She would have chuckled if she had the strength. She could almost hear the tale. _After months of ignoring her responsibilities, Dragonborn dies on the steps to High Hrothgar. Everyone dies as dragons wreak havoc on the Nirn._ Now that would be a tale to tell the grandchildren.

After awhile, Tom noticed the winds had eased up a bit, and she cautiously lifted her head. All she could see in front of her were more steps and snow and rock, but the weather had died down. Above her, she could see the sun peeking through a bit of cloud. It was roughly noon, but she couldn't tell exactly when. Grumbling, the Breton decided now was the best time to get some rest. She couldn't be certain when she would get another opportunity. Using what little strength she had left, she sat down on the steps with her back to the wind. There was bread and a couple apples in her pack. That could help a little with her strength. With her frozen fingers, she fumbled as she attempted to pull her pack out from under her cloak to no avail. Her fingers just wouldn't move. In a desperate attempt to warm them, she stuck them between her pathetic excuse for thighs. There wasn't anything she wouldn't give to be a jolly, fat Nord woman right then. At least then she might have been able to make it another thousand steps. If only she had learned a damn flames spell back when she still had Lyra to read to her. That would have come in handy at least a dozen times in her lifetime, but no, that was too convenient and useful and basic for her complicated ass. Tom would have punched herself in the face if she could move.

Still, how hard could it be to learn? Tom had learned other spells, more complex ones at that. It was worth an attempt at the very least. She pulled one of her hands from between her thighs and held it out. Tom thought of what Lyra had read to her when she was learning the other spells. The basic idea couldn't be much different. She just needed to focus her energy and conceptualize the flames, which was admittedly a lot harder than it sounded given the temperature, but if her fidgety, reckless younger self could learn a calm spell, she could remember heat while nearly freezing to death. Tom thought of bonfires outside of Anvil on holidays and all the campfires built during her years of travel. A small blue wisp of magic sparked up from her hand, but it took no form and quickly flickered out.

Tom chose to take that as a good sign. Her confidence rising, she concentrated harder. She needed a stronger memory, something that really captured the essence of fire. Fire wasn't just a source of heat. It was a force. She thought of Helgen, when the headsman's ax was halted only by an act of the Gods. The dragon had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, raining down fire on the settlement. The buildings, made of stick and straw, had quickly caught flame as if they were no more than kindling. The memory seemed powerful enough to do the trick. Immediately, a large flame burst from her hand, nearly singing the woman's face before it died down to a small ball of fire that floated just above her fingers. Smiling, Tom warmed her hands with the flame, and once she was warm enough to actually move her fingers, she extinguished the spell.

Taking a couple rags from her pack, the Breton set them down on the step below her and lit them. Fortunately, it was easier to do the second time around. She then pulled out a large, thick glass bottle from her pack. Even without opening it, she could tell that the water inside had turned completely to ice during her hike up the mountain. Tom set the bottle down next to her make-shift campfire and then retrieved a small loaf of bread to snack on while she waited for her drink to thaw. The bread was, likewise, hard and frozen, but if she bit down hard enough and ignored the pain after accidentally biting her tongue, she could break off just enough crumbs to prevent her from passing out. Tom supposed that was the one good thing about her erratic eating habits. After years of only eating when absolutely necessary, it didn't take much to sustain her. Eventually, the bottle warmed up enough that the insides vaguely resembled a liquid. Figuring it was drinkable, Tom opened the bottle and took a couple sips, only for her bottom lip to stick frozen to the glass. With great effort, she jerked the bottle from her mouth, peeling off a fair bit of skin, and closed it back up as blood trickled from her lips.

After deciding that her attempt at eating would prove to be just as perilous as the climb up the mountain, Tom put the bread and bottle back into her pack, but she did not leave immediately. Instead, the Breton let herself warm by the small fire a bit longer before continuing on. As she extinguished the flames and gathered her things, she found that the snow and winds had died down considerably, which would make the next couple hours of her journey a little more bearable. Sighing to herself, she began trekking up the steps once more. As the hours passed, the harsh weather continuously flared up and died down as Tom climbed step after unbearable step, but every time she was felt herself ready to give up, her body would not allow her to stop. She had given up too many times before. Eventually, just as the sky grew dark and the temperature dropped even lower than before, Tom saw a warm glow of fire coming from just around the corner of the mountain. Hoping that the end was in sight, she trudged up the last bit of steps at the quickest pace she could muster, nearly tripping over herself as she reached the top of the hill.

In front of her, lit only by the warm glow of torches, stood the great stone fortress of High Hrothgar, as ancient and beautiful as she could have imagined, and in a cruel twist of fate, there were still two winding, stone staircases leading up to the monastery. Exhaling in relief, Tom let out a little chuckle as her legs finally gave out and she fell to the snow-covered ground, but it didn't matter. The damn climb was finally over. While she knelt on the ground, alternating between hysterical laughter and heavy breathing, Tom found her relief short-lived as it occurred to her that though she had indeed reached the top of the mountain, this was only the beginning of what she would have to go through. Groaning, she collapsed face forward onto the ground and cradled her head in her arms. If she lived through this whole Dragonborn business, she was going somewhere warm and relatively flat, and more importantly, she was never, ever returning to this infernal winter wasteland so long as she lived.

Her fantasies of retiring to some seaside city in Hammerfell were cut short by the light sound of feet descending down the staircase in front of her. Unable to make herself move, Tom caught her breath as the steps drew closer, and even with the hood of her cloak covering her head and her face pressed against the ground, she could feel a figure looming over her. The figure cleared its throat with a cough and spoke in a rasping voice.

"Are you all right, child?"

. . .

Less than a week ago, there had been an inexplicable shift in the winds. Not the literal ones that could be heard howling outside the fortress on any given day, no, there had been an overwhelming change in the air that Arngeir could feel deep inside himself, and as he found out upon consulting with the other Graybeards, it had not only been he who had noticed it. A reckoning had come. Perhaps Alduin had gathered enough strength to fulfill his destiny as the destroyer of worlds, or perhaps it was something considerably less dramatic. Either way, a great change was on its way, and he had steeled himself for whatever was coming. What the wizened monk had not been expecting was a very small pilgrim showing up outside the settlement at dusk. Arngeir had been making the nightly rounds to light the various lamps around the settlement when he spotted the pilgrim laying there on the ground, hunched over and – laughing? A black, fur-trimmed cloak covered the stranger's entire body, but he could tell as he cautiously walked down the steps that the person underneath was scarcely any larger than a child. Clearing his throat as he approached the strange pilgrim, he asked, "Are you all right, child?"

The stranger sighed and slowly got to their feet as they brushed the snow off their body and lifted their head to look at him. A Breton woman's face, pale and scarred, could be seen under the shadow of the hood. Her nose was red from the cold, and her large eyes were sunken and weary. Her cheeks blushed slightly as she looked away and tried to smile.

"I'm sorry," the woman said. "It was a long trip."

"I understand," Arngeir replied with a hum. He motioned for the woman to follow him as he turned and led her up the stairs into the fortress. "Braving the seven-thousand steps is no small feat. Tell me, child. What brings you to High Hrothgar?"

"See I was hoping you could tell me," she said. Her tone was a little flippant, as was the nature of the young and inexperienced. Still, Arngeir reserved his judgments as she continued. "I was told you summoned me. I know I'm a little late, but –"

As he reached the top of the steps, Arngeir whisked back around to face the stranger, and her voice was immediately silenced as he examined her. Could this peculiar, young woman truly be who she claimed? It had been nearly a year since the Graybeards shouted their summons, and Arngeir had all but given up hope that the Dragonborn would answer their call. Yet, here this woman stood, claiming to be the blood of dragons. Admittedly, the old Graybeard had not been expecting a Dragonborn to be so – _small_. Her ill-fitted cloak dragged against the ground behind her and dwarfed her slim figure, and her large, doe-like eyes gave her an air of helplessness. Even as he looked her over, she appeared uncomfortable and insecure, but perhaps he was being too hasty in his judgment. Not all heroes were born great, but molded into greatness. If the woman was as she claimed, Dovahkiin, then it was his honor and duty as a Graybeard to aid her in her journey to find her destiny.

"So a Dragonborn finally appears," he said as he turned back around and opened the door to High Hrothgar. "Well, we will see if you truly have the gift."

"I don't get a little rest first?" she asked, japing once again, as she followed him into the fortress and lowered her hood. The Graybeard instantly recognized this seemingly innocent humor as a childish deflection, a defense mechanism for the secretly stubborn, and knew that training this woman in the way of the Voice would prove to be no easy task. Their way was not for the strong of head, whose opinions were set in stone, but the strong of mind, who allowed themselves to be malleable and open to the changing of the world. When Arngeir did not voice any approval or disapproval at her frivolity, the woman sheepishly diverted her gaze toward the architecture and hung her head like a dog who had been scolded. As he lead her into the main room, the other Graybeards took notice and gathered around. Arngeir turned to the alleged Dragonborn.

"Show us, Dragonborn," he said to her. "Let us taste of your Voice."

The others watched her with great anticipation as the little Breton ran her hand through the back of her hair and exhaled. Her face uncertain, her eyes darted around the room, but Arngeir waited patiently as she tried to let herself relax. Finally, the woman took in a deep breath and exhaled an ear-splitting Thu'um.

_"Fus!"_

In all his years, Arngeir had never seen such a thing. An untrained woman Shouting with the same force of one of their own. The room shook and a few pots scattered. Even Wulfgar, who had been standing a little too close to her line of fire, stumbled backwards and silently stared over at Arngeir, his old eyes full of amazement and shock. The woman was, indeed, as she claimed, Dovahkiin, and yet, she appeared to be just as taken aback by her own Thu'um as the rest of them. Collecting himself, Arngeir straightened himself and pressed his hands together as he addressed the newly discovered Dragonborn. "It is you, Dragonborn. Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Graybeards."

"Jeanne," she replied, warily. There was dishonesty in the woman's voice, but Arngeir didn't pay it much mind. She did not yet realize that the Graybeards were not bound by the laws of the outside world and whatever she had done that would lead her to lie about her own name did not concern them. Still, if she allowed herself, she would grow to trust them. Until then, he would respect her desire for privacy.

"Tell me, Dragonborn," he said. "After all this time, why have you come here?"

"Like I said, I figured I should answer your summons," she answered. "Figure out what all this Dragonborn business means."

"And we are honored to have you among us," Arngeir replied, choosing to ignore her cheekiness. "We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfillment of your destiny."

"Destiny," the Breton repeated, suddenly deep in thought. "You mean to defeat the dragons?"

"While it can be no coincidence that the appearance of a Dragonborn coincides with the return of the dragons," Arngeir began, "I cannot tell you for certain that it is your destiny. That is for you alone to discover. We can show you the Way, but not your destination."

The Dragonborn – Jeanne, as she called herself – did not seem satisfied with his answer. She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, but still she held her tongue. Perhaps she would be an easier pupil than Arngeir had suspected. Crossing her arms, she shrugged off her discontent and said, "In that case, I guess I better start learning."

Arngeir smiled softly. "You have shown that you are Dragonborn. You have an inborn gift for the Voice, but do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you?" He paused. "That remains to be seen. Even without training, you have already taken the steps to projecting your Voice into a Thu'um, a Shout."

"Yeah, I know what the Thu'um is," she said, and Arngeir held his tongue, reminding himself to be patient with the girl.

"Then let us see if you are willing and able to learn," he replied. "I assume then you already know that when you Shout, you're using the tongue of the dragons and that your Dragon-Blood allows you to learn Words of Power more quickly than others?"

Jeanne made a sour face and pushed her dark bangs out of her eyes. "No. I just know what the Thu'um is and that being able to do it makes me important or something."

"Ah, well then, I should tell you that there are three Words of Power in each Shout," Arngeir replied as he turned toward the other Graybeards. "As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger. Master Einarth will now teach you '_Ro_,' the second Word in Unrelenting Force." He motioned to Einarth, and the other Graybeard stepped into the middle of the room as Arngeir continued on. "It means balance in the dragon language. Combine it with _'Fus'_ – force – and it will focus your Thu'um more sharply."

As Arngeir finished speaking, Master Einarth let out a relatively quiet Shout and projected the Word onto the ground. Cautiously, Jeanne approached the burning Word, and the light from the etching quickly began to fade out. Shivering, the Dragonborn stood up straight and held her head before turning her gaze back toward Arngeir. "I got it. Now what?"

"You learn new Words like a master," Arngeir replied, "but learning the Words is only the first step. In order to use it as a Shout, you must unlock its meaning through constant practice, or at least, that is how it is for the rest of us. As Dragonborn, you can learn it directly by absorbing a slain dragon's life force and knowledge. As part of your initiation, Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding of '_Ro_.'"

The Dragonborn gave him a sharp, understanding nod. For all her flippancy, she was capable of being serious when it came down to it, and Arngeir found himself admiring her fire. Einarth raised his arms as lights began to swirl around him before being sucked into Jeanne's body. Tense and rigid, Arngeir could tell the woman was resisting the knowledge – out of fear, perhaps, or maybe it was her stubborn nature getting the better of her. Once it was over, she exhaled in a grunt and shook herself furiously.

"I'm never getting used to that," the Dragonborn said, smiling.

"I believe you will," Arngeir replied. "Now let us see how quickly you master your new Thu'um."

Quirking an eyebrow, Jeanne eyed the old master over as he motioned to the other Graybeards. Realizing there was something going on, she spun around as Wulfgar projected a shadowy target for her with his Voice. She caught on to the exercise immediately and Shouted it away. Arngeir smiled as the woman quickly finished off each of the targets given to her. It was like nothing he had seen before. Her Shouts were shaky and not as focused as he would prefer them to be. She especially faltered with _Ro_, giving Arngeir the impression that balance was not in her nature. However, what she lacked in precision, she made up for in sheer power, which the Graybeard found a little ironic given her size. Once the exercise was over, the girl spun back around, grinning from ear to ear.

"Well done, Dragonborn," Arngeir said as he approached her. "You show great promise."

"Is that it?" she said, her confidence shaking. "I can just go out and kill dragons now? Save the world and all?"

"No, no," he answered. "You still have much to learn, but I think we can call it a night. I do believe you mentioned wanting some rest, earlier? There should be a spare bed down the hall if you wish to sleep and a cooking spit not far off if you need food. Find Master Borri and I in the morning when you are ready to resume your training."

"Yeah," she said, smiling. "I'll be sure to do that."

Without much else to say, the woman scurried off as Arngeir looked to Borri, who raised his eyebrows and smiled, clearly just as impressed by the girl's talents as Arngeir was. There was no denying that the Dragonborn was a peculiar, thickheaded young woman with a quick tongue and much to learn before she was ready to be facing any sort of destiny. However as he had noted earlier, she had raw talent and more importantly, a certain fire in her once she got past her own insecurities, and like fire, she would have to learn to control herself, but in mastering her weakness, she would be all the stronger for it. The path to training her may be rocky, but Arngeir knew in his heart that this would be rewarding or at the very least be a chance to try his patience.

. . .

"Become a guard," her father had told her. The old Nord had taken his then sixteen-year-old daughter aside and given her this fateful advice, and since he had been both soldier and guard, the young girl had naturally assumed he knew what he was talking about. "A soldier's life is too unpredictable. As a guard, you'll have both excitement and stability. Yes, yes, I know, my dear, security doesn't mean much too you now, but you'll thank me later."

Being the dutiful daughter she had been, Lydia had heeded her father's advice. The woman had taken a job with the Whiterun guard and trained every day in order to be the best damn swordsman in the hold. Then, after nearly a decade of apprehending criminals and hunting out bandits and blood and sweat, it seemed as if all her work had finally paid off. The captain of the guard, Commander Caius, had personally recommended her to be appointed as the housecarl for Whiterun's new thane. Now, under normal circumstances, Lydia would have been offended that her talents were being reassigned to a position that was essentially a glorified watchdog, but Whiterun's new thane was no ordinary politician, whose most ferocious enemies would be paper cuts and other politicians. No she had been assigned as housecarl for the Dragonborn, flesh of Akatosh and destined savior of the Nirn. Instead of guarding some stuffy house for a pompous twit with more coin than sense, Lydia would be fighting dragons and draugr. It had been more than the woman had hoped for – if that had been the way it had turned out.

It had been nearly a year since the Dragonborn had been seen in Whiterun. The very night of her battle with the dragon outside Whiterun and subsequent appointment as thane, the mysterious woman had left for High Hrothgar, and she had not been spotted in the city since. Given that dragons were still terrorizing the countryside, raining down fire and terror upon the citizens of Skyrim, Lydia found it safe to say the Dragonborn, whomever she was, had not been doing her job, and worse, Lydia had been left to guard a couple chairs in Dragonsreach for the past several months. It was a horridly boring life. The other guards were off patrolling the hold, fighting off beasts and keeping the hold safe, and what was she doing? Sitting in Dragonsreach counting the stones in the wall as she came to the painful realization that had she ignored her father's advice, she would probably have died in some meaningless battle by now, but at least she would have been doing something.

It was a particularly boring Sundas afternoon as she sat in the corner of Dragonsreach ignoring the furtive glances of a certain castle guard whom Lydia had contemptuously dubbed "Lover Boy" and who had made it his personal life mission to harass her at every opportunity all in hopes of getting his hands under her tassets and into her trousers. In response to his quest, Lydia had taken it upon herself to make it _her_ personal life mission to glare and scowl at him all in hopes that if she hated him enough, his head would spontaneously burst into flames. Unfortunately, this seething hatred did nothing to dissuade him his goal and quite possibly had made him more interested in getting into her knickers. In all honesty, it wouldn't surprise Lydia in the slightest if her obvious disgust for him had piqued his interest even further. Most of the castle guards were of a particularly revolting breed. Though some were older or at the very least more experienced guards, who had worked hard and earned a more dignified post, most of them were lazy sons of rich men who had bought their way to the position. No more than glorified watch dogs, they lounged around Dragonsreach snatching sweet rolls and fondling the serving girls. Worse yet, Lydia knew that given that she wasn't off saving Skyrim from dragons, she might as well be one of them.

As Lydia was engaging in her daily battle of glares with – Gods, what was his real name? Hagvar, Hanvir, Heaver? – _Lover Boy_, she did happen to notice what appeared to be a child entering Dragonsreach. Taking a moment from her busy day of doing jack all, Lydia allowed herself to be taken in by her curiosity and studied this unexpected guest. The girl, who upon second glance appeared to be much older than Lydia had first thought, walked straight through Dragonsreach like a ghost, completely undetected by all the other guards, and for a split-second, Lydia thought she may have finally gone mad from the monotony and hallucinated the woman. Her fear was unfounded though as the woman approached Jarl Bulgruuf's throne and the jarl immediately got to his feet and greeted her. Lydia playfully mused that perhaps the girl was another of the jarl's bastards. Balgruuf was well regarded as a good man and beloved by his people, rightfully so in Lydia's opinion, but his lack of self-control when it came to his personal life was no secret in the hold, especially in Dragonsreach. Still, Lydia was positive that she would have heard the rumors had one of the jarl's bastards been expected for a visit, even if they were visiting under a false identity as they often were, and if one had shown up unannounced, well, Balgruuf certainly wouldn't have greeted them as cheerfully as his did for the young woman.

The two spoke for awhile, and Lydia strained herself to listen in on the conversation to no avail. The girl spoke so quietly that Lydia wouldn't have even known she was talking if not for her lips moving, and although Balgruuf's booming voice could be heard even on the other side of the fortress, Lydia couldn't make out his words. At one point in the conversation, Balgruuf looked straight at Lydia and motioned to her as the stranger looked over her shoulder at the guardswoman as well and eyed her over with careful inspection, the same way a rider would a potential horse. Naturally, this ominous examination did not sit particularly well with Lydia, but if this woman needed muscle, at least it would be a chance to get out of Dragonsreach. It had been so long since she had done anything of use no matter what this woman wanted it had to be better than sitting around. The girl nodded her head at the Jarl and said something else to him, and he called over his steward. The three then spoke for a little while still before the Jarl dismissed the steward and lead the girl in Lydia's direction. The guardswoman could feel her heart rate quicken as she shot a smug smirk towards Lover Boy. Dragonborn or not, she was getting out of this damn place for at least a little while. As the two approached her, Lydia stood up respectfully and bowed to the Jarl.

"My jarl," she greeted them and snuck a glance to inspect the girl better. Admittedly, she felt a bit foolish for having thought the woman a child or even a youth. Despite her waifish figure and small stature, it was evident from her thin, expressionless face that the Breton couldn't be much younger in age than Lydia herself.

"Lydia, is it?" Jarl Balgruuf asked, and the Nord woman nodded. "I would like to introduce you to the thane you've been assigned to, the Dragonborn."

Lydia chuckled at the joke but quickly stopped when the jarl furrowed his brow in confusion. Horrified by her indiscretion, the housecarl clenched her jaw and stared down at the woman, who if she had indeed been offended by Lydia's careless actions, was hiding it pretty damn well behind her stony face. "I'm so sorry, my thane."

"It's all right," the alleged Dragonborn said, her tone as unreadable as her face. There was a small twang in her unfamiliar accent that marked her as a woman who had not grown up in luxury, and Lydia felt a little relieved that not only had she not offended the woman – maybe – but also that she wouldn't have to be traveling with some haughty, clean-nailed Breton who probably couldn't even lift a sword. Instead, Lydia would be traveling with a modest, dirt-caked Breton who probably still couldn't even lift a sword. Nonetheless, the thane turned to Balgruuf and said to him in a tone curter than most who spoke to the jarl, "This will do. Thank you."

"It's the least we can do for the woman who saved the city," the jarl replied. He nodded at the both of them and returned to his throne. Without so much as a simple greeting, the Dragonborn motioned for Lydia to follow her, and she obliged, following the Breton woman out of Dragonsreach and into the sunny streets of Whiterun. Lydia couldn't help but watch the little thane as she quickly headed from the Cloud District down the steps to the Wind District. Though she held her shoulders forward and walked with all the purpose and drive of a disciplined soldier, the woman made no noise when she walked, and Lydia wasn't entirely certain which unnerved her more – her silent steps or her silent tongue. It wasn't until they reached the marketplace that the thane spoke again. She suddenly stopped in the middle of the square and inspected the area carefully.

"You were expecting someone taller," the Dragonborn said in a way that sounded both like a question and a statement. Scratching at her jaw line uncomfortably, Lydia carefully thought over her answer, in hopes to keep from possibly offending the woman again. Lydia had known the Dragonborn was a woman. Everyone in Whiterun knew that. Balgruuf himself had made it a point to issue a public statement after the incident with the Falkreath pretender, but her race had always been a bit of a vague topic. Even in Dragonsreach, there were those who had sworn they had seen her face, but each one differed in their description of her appearance. Most agreed that she was on the lither side, but Lydia had dismissed that as men's desire for the delicate, like paintings of historical women of war who had soft faces and dainty hands. The image Lydia had personally concocted had been a little, dexterous, red-haired Nord woman who looked suspiciously like the huntress of Jorrvaskr.

"Not necessarily taller," Lydia replied. "Just – _bigger_."

The Dragonborn remained mostly facing away from Lydia, but the Nord could still see a sliver of the woman's face pause and consider – no, calculate her reply. Fortunately, she decided not to continue that line of conversation. "Are you good with a sword?"

"Best in the hold that doesn't drink and die for the Companions," Lydia answered. "Maybe even better than some of the younger members."

Lydia didn't even bother to feign modesty about her skill. As her former guard captain had explained to her the day following the battle with the dragon, a battle Lydia had missed due to being assigned to guard the Wind District, she had been his first choice for the position. In the other main holds – Solitude, Markarth, Windhelm, and even the damnable Riften – the housecarls who were appointed to thanes were appointed from the nobility's chosen warriors, but in a hold like Whiterun, where all those who would normally be vying for the rather dignified position of housecarl either joined up with the Companions or ended up like Uthgerd, jaded and drinking their life away in the Bannered Mare, they didn't have the luxury of having a plethora of spirited, gallant swordsmen at their disposal, all willing to swear their life and allegiance to the latest crony of the jarl. No, Whiterun didn't have that when every child in the hold had all grown up with dreams of something greater. So the jarl naturally drew from the guards, especially the castle guardsmen seeing as, despite how much Lydia hated to admit it, they were often better trained than those who patrolled the city or hold if only because of their wealthy fathers. Typically this system worked well since with most thanes the job of housecarl was often no different than guarding Dragonsreach.

However, when the Dragonborn, savior of the Nirn, had rolled into town and saved the city, even Balgruuf had known he needed someone worthy of helping her, and when the Commander Caius had nearly immediately chosen her, it was something to be proud of. Fortunately, the Dragonborn did not appear displeased by the boldness of Lydia's words. Instead, she cracked a small, strange smile and gave a small nod.

"Good. I'll be needing that." She finally turned her gaze toward Lydia. "How's your armor? Do you need anything?"

Her armor, compliments of the jarl, was brand new and never used in battle, but that wasn't what concerned Lydia. She glanced down at her sword. The old blade could still cut, certainly, but it was getting on in years. Back when she was a guardswoman, she had been saving up to buy a better sword from Avenicci at Warmaiden's, but that plan went to the wolves when she had become a housecarl. The unfortunate thing about her new job was that it was an honorary position not a paid profession. They had kept her boarded and fed in Dragonsreach since she'd accepted the position, but her own coin had run out roughly two months ago. She wasn't certain if she was comfortable telling the thane she wanted a new sword.

"My armor's fine," Lydia replied. "The blade, well, it's getting on in years. It'll still cut through a man's head, no problem, but not as clean as it used to."

The Breton dug through her pack and pulled out a rather hefty coin purse. Tossing the bag to Lydia, who fumbled to catch it, the thane said to her, "Go get yourself anything you need. I have some business to take care of. Meet me outside the old Honningbrew Meadery when you're done, and we'll be heading out."

"As you say, my thane."

Without another word, the Dragonborn headed off for the alchemist shop, leaving Lydia alone in the street. She went through the purse to find there was a considerable amount of coin in there, at least two hundred if she had counted correctly. It was certainly more than enough for a new sword. After closing the bag back up and pocketing it, Lydia made her way down to Warmaiden's where a grime-covered Adrianne Avenicci was, as always, tiring over her forge. As Lydia approached the forge, the Imperial blacksmith stuck down a final blow of her hammer against the metal she was working and wiped the sweat from her brow. Upon spotting Lydia, Adrianne stood up straight and greeted the Nord woman with a friendly smile.

"Ah, Lydia, it's been awhile since I've seen you stumbling out of the Huntsman," she said. "Nearly thought you died until Valdis told me about your new job. I suppose there's some congratulations in order."

"Thanks," Lydia replied. "How have you been?"

Brushing the hair from her face, Adrianne exhaled and rolled her eyes. "Busy. With the war and dragons, it seems everyone needs a new sword or shield these days. I can't complain too much. The coin's never been better, but I don't really have time any more to stand and chat like this."

"Oh, sorry," Lydia said. "I'll go see Uthbert inside then."

Smiling, Adrianne turned back to her forge and began working again. "It's fine. We can still talk. I just need to be working while we do. So what brings you down to the Plains District?"

"Same reason I'm at your shop of all places," Lydia said. "I need a sword."

"Well, there's a couple swords over there on that table you can look at if you're in the market. A few aren't for general sale, though. So run it by me before you take it inside."

"I'll make sure to do that," Lydia said. Making her way over to the table, she picked up a steel sword and tested the weight. "How is the old girl? Valdis, I mean."

"Well, I suppose," Adrianne replied. "Doesn't come around these parts nearly as much since Ivarr left the city."

Lydia nearly dropped the sword she'd been holding. The three of them – Valdis, Ivarr, and Lydia, herself – had been somewhat of a team. They had gone through training together and come out of as thick as thieves. Not a night went by where the trio couldn't be found in the Drunken Huntsman, having to drag at least one of them off the floor and back to the barracks. It had been a smart match, too. Valdis, stocky and hard of face, was born in Riften and had no illusions about what her job might force her to do. Ivarr, on the other hand, was from a small farming settlement just a days trip from Whiterun, and his world view was a tad bit too much on the rosy side. Positioned somewhere between Val's practicality and cynicism and Ivarr's compassion and ideals, Lydia often found herself mediating between the two. Still, given Ivarr's dedication to his work and seemingly unbreakable optimism, something truly terrible must have happened for him to leave the guard.

"Ivarr left?"

"You didn't hear?" Adrianne asked. Her face was genuinely surprised as she looked over her shoulder at Lydia. Lydia shook her head, and Adrianne's demeanor sunk as she focused her gaze back down on the metal in front of her. "A dragon attacked Goldbrook about four months back. Razed the whole settlement to the ground in a matter of minutes. Poor folks didn't even stand a chance."

Lydia's eyes widened. "By the Nine."

"After the news came," the smith continued solemnly, "he immediately volunteered to patrol the hold, and no one's really heard from him since. At least, that's what Val told me. You would have to ask her yourself if you want the whole story. I haven't seen either of them in months."

Lydia contemplated taking Adrianne's advice. She could go find Val and find out what she had missed while she was living the high life in Dragonsreach, but while seeing her old friend was a tempting thought, Lydia knew her priorities. She was to find a sword and meet the Dragonborn outside the meadery. The thane, while peculiar, did not appear to be unreasonable. Eventually, she would most likely give Lydia some time off when there weren't dragons to fight. Placing the steel sword back down on the table, Lydia grabbed for a Dwemer battleaxe and gave it a few quick, controlled swings. The weapon held well, heavy enough to give a powerful swing but light enough not to feel unruly in her hands.

"How much for the battleaxe?" she asked.

"That one's not for sale," Adrianne replied, "but the Dwemer sword is. Since I like you, it's two-hundred and twenty and I'll have Uthbert throw in a new shield as well."

It was more than a fair deal. Lydia picked up the golden metal sword and took it inside for purchase. Upon walking into the store, Uthbert, the great bear of a man, greeted Lydia with a warm grin and a loud holler of congratulations on her new assignment. It didn't take long for the two to catch up as Lydia paid for her purchase and Uthbert found the shield just as his wife had promised. Once everything was settled, Lydia packed up her things and waved goodbye before setting back out to the roads of Whiterun to meet up with the thane. The meadery had been a strange choice for a rendezvous. Lydia mused to herself that perhaps the Dragonborn had a weakness for the spirits. To be honest, it wouldn't surprise Lydia in the slightest if it were true, and it would certainly explain a lot.

The late spring sun blazed above her and light breeze swept past her as Lydia exited the city and meandered down the gravel road to the former Honnigbrew meadery. It didn't take her long to arrive. As she approached the fence, she glanced around curiously, but the thane was nowhere to be found. Perhaps the Dragonborn was still at the alchemist or she had gone off to another shop. Figuring it could take awhile yet, Lydia leaned against the post and waited with her eyes fixed over the hill in anticipation for the little Breton to come wandering down the road at any second. Several minutes passed, and Lydia became impatient. Sourly puckering her lips, she crossed her arms and glanced around again. Had the Dragonborn said to meet her at the meadery or in the meadery? Maybe the thane was inside, waiting just as impatiently as Lydia was outside. Shrugging her shoulders, the housecarl decided it couldn't hurt to check and headed inside.

As Lydia entered into the meadery, she caught the faint sound of a conversation coming from inside. However, the place was seemingly empty as the woman closed the door behind her. She stepped up to the counter in search any sort of note that would explain where the salesman had gone off to or at the very least a sign of where her new thane was. Lydia had heard Sabjorn had been taken in a couple months ago for trying to poison to guard captain, but she had also heard that the Black-Briars of Riften had made a quick bid for the property and they were not known for their leniency with idle workers. Unable to find any answers at the counter, she noticed that the voices appeared to be coming from behind a slightly ajar door that lead to the next room. She took a couple steps closer to the door in hopes of overhearing something useful.

"That sounds more than fair," a woman's voice said. Lydia identified it as possibly the Dragonborn's, if only due to the brisk, cold tone. "And I _am_ sorry about all this. I just left in such a hurry. I didn't even think–"

"Ah, don't mention it." This voice was immediately recognized by Lydia as that of Mallus Maccius. She knew the man all too well and had personally escorted the oily-haired Imperial into a jail cell many times for drunk and disorderly conduct, always for him to be bailed out the next morning by an irate Sabjorn. The guardswoman had certainly pitied the man for the utterly degrading treatment he had suffered under Sabjorn's employ – if it could even be called that – but Mallus had this side-mouthed way of talking that set Lydia's teeth on edge. The Imperial didn't deserve Sabjorn's abuse, but there wasn't a doubt in Lydia's mind that he wasn't a degenerate through and through. Lydia took a couple more steps toward the door and considered opening it. The thane _was_ inside, and Lydia _was_ supposed to meet her there, but curiosity got the better of the housecarl and she listened in.

"Besides," Mallus continued, "I do owe you one, Skinny. You come by any time, and I'll still do business with you. Brinn won't even have to know. I'll say it came from that damned Breton. You know the one, I'm sure. Goin' grey round the edges, broken nose, thinks he's _real_ funny." Lydia heard the Dragonborn chuckle at the description, and even though the housecarl's thoughts were all a flutter with what kind of business the thane could have with a man like Maccius, she did take a moment to appreciate the first time she had witnessed the Breton react in a way that was even remotely human. Under her laughter, the Dragonborn said a name that Lydia couldn't make out, but Mallus must have recognized it because he immediately replied, "Yeah that's the one. Anyway, he always sells by the bulk, so I'm sure no one's going to notice if I tack on your sales to his."

"I doubt I'll be coming back," the thane replied, "but I appreciate the offer."

"Suit yourself. The door's always open."

Lydia could sense that was the end of the conversation and footsteps heading towards the door confirmed her fears. With all the grace of a horker flopping about on the shore, the housecarl stumbled back a few steps and hastily turned toward the counter as the door to the stockroom opened and out stepped the thane and Maccius. Lydia innocently turned her head to face them. Mallus crinkled his nose and stared suspiciously at the Nord woman, and Lydia got the sneaking suspicion that he was remembering that time she dropped him down the steps to the Wind District while "escorting" him to the cells. Likewise, the Dragonborn didn't appear to be all too thrilled to see her housecarl standing there. Fighting the blood rushing to her cheeks, Lydia did her best not to give herself away.

"Oh, there you are, my thane," Lydia said a little too loudly. "I was looking for you."

The little Breton woman crossed her arms and pursed her lips before replying in an authoritative voice that could have rivaled Commander Caius's, "I thought I told you to meet me outside the meadery."

"Yeah, well, I waited around for awhile, and you never showed up so I thought I'd check in here."

It was honest to an extent, but Lydia could tell that the thane wasn't buying it. Fortunately, before the Dragonborn could respond, Lydia's salvation came in the form of Mallus Maccius, who was clearly just as uncomfortable as she was, shuffling past the vexed Breton and heading toward the counter.

"So could I interest you two ladies in a drink for the road?" he asked. It wasn't enough to truly break the tension, but it did make the air a little easier to bear as the thane's lips twitched and she uncrossed her arms. Mallus ducked behind the counter and returned with two bottles. "Black-Briar Reserve, best in the province."

"I think I could go for that, yeah," the Dragonborn replied, and Lydia had to restrain herself from audibly sighing in relief. The thane then proceeded to order several more bottles of mead than Lydia could have expected a woman her size to be able to drink in one sitting, and with no more than a brusque farewell to the salesman and a sharp nod to Lydia, the thane stuffed the drinks in her pack and exited the meadery.

. . .

The majority of the first day of the trip to Ustengrav was fairly uneventful, apart from a couple wolves that had chosen the pair as prey just as the two women had been traveling across the rocky plains of the Whiterun hold. Luckily, they had been quickly blown away by the Thu'um and been caused the women trouble at all. It was a useful ability, to say the least, but Tom doubted she would be willing to employ it in more populated area, but she would get to that later. For now, she was – as she had curtly explained to Lydia after leaving the meadery – to retrieve the horn of some dead Nord and bring it back to the Graybeards as part of her final trial of initiation or whatever it was Arngeir had gone on about back atop High Hrothgar. To be perfectly honest, Tom wasn't particularly clear on the importance of this task and she didn't particularly care to be either. If this got her a step closer to getting everything over with, than so be it. She had more important things to worry about, like how in Oblivion her scrawny self was going to be able to take on dragons when the time came.

On the bright side, Lydia had proven to be an agreeable traveling companion, despite her initial flops of their first hour together and the nagging worry in Tom's head that the Nord had overheard her dealings with Mallus. Whatever she had or hadn't overheard, Lydia appeared to be perfectly fine with not bringing it up, a trait that the Breton appreciated greatly. Other than that, she had shown to have other pleasant traits, such as her ability to quickly pick up on the fact Tom was not the talkative type. Interestingly enough, Lydia had seemed a bit relieved by the fact, though it was possibly less due to Tom being a terrible conversationalist – as it usually was – and more due to the Nord woman having the unrivaled ability to put her foot in her mouth. It was almost endearing. Tom had fully expected for a housecarl, the type of person who would willingly swear away her life to some noble they had never met without promise of any type of payment, to be a stuffy, proper, overly subservient sort of person, and Lydia was anything but that. She rolled her eyes when talking her thane. She grumbled and made smart remarks under her breath. She had chuckled when the wolves attacked. It was strange, certainly, but oddly comforting to the Breton at the same time. Though Tom was surely not planning on ever revealing absolutely anything about her past to the woman, Lydia's informal, somewhat rough nature eased Tom's worries of how she would react to it were it to ever come up.

Unfortunately, the second day of the trip turned out to be a lot more difficult than the first. Tom had stayed up all night watching guard while Lydia slept. The housecarl had offered for them to take shifts, but Tom knew the only way she would be able to get any sleep is if she drank herself into oblivion and even then, she wouldn't be able to function in the morning if she had. After explaining this to Lydia, the housecarl had replied with a wry "well, that sounds healthy" and claimed it was "your loss", before curling up in her bed roll and retiring for the night. The next morning, Tom had woken her companion at dawn, and the two had packed up camp and headed on their way. They had just entered into the marshes outside of Morthal when Lydia held her hand up, stopping the Breton in her tracks.

"There's a camp up there," Lydia said, curtly and quietly. For the first time since Tom had met the woman, there was not even the slightest bit of flippancy to her. Every muscle in her body tensed up as she stared into the forest in front of them. "You smell that? It's a fire, and it's still burning."

"Wha–"

"Shh!" Lydia clenched her jaw and raised her head as if to listen for something. Listening in as well, Tom quickly heard it – voices, and they weren't far off. Her mind ran wild with fear of bandits and thugs, and adrenaline rushed through her body as she was overwhelmed with a desire to flee. Instinctively taking a step back, the Breton turned her head toward Lydia.

"We should go another way," Tom whispered, but Lydia shook her head. She held up her finger as if to motion for the thane to listen harder and Tom reluctantly did. Footsteps, they were in the distance, but still coming toward them.

"They've already heard us, my thane," Lydia replied quietly as she drew her sword.

"Then we've got to get out of here," Tom growled. Cocking her head at the Breton, Lydia stared down at her.

"With all due respect, my thane, I'm sure the Dragonborn and a trained warrior can take a couple of bandits," she said incredulously, "if they're even that. For all we know, we could be running from a Khajiit caravan. Where's your courage, sir?"

Tom found herself at a loss for words. Lydia was right, of course. In the heat of the moment, Tom had forgotten she was no longer a little Breton with a few spells and a mediocre proficiency with a bow, or at least, that's not how the world saw her now. Still, nature got the better of her, and she frantically turned her gaze back in the direction of the footsteps.

"We don't know how many of them there are," Tom said, "and I'm no good on a head on fight. It's better if we set up an ambush until we identify them."

Lydia pursed her lips thoughtfully and smiled. "You go ahead. Set up an ambush. I'll keep them busy."

"They could shoot you down in a second," the Dragonborn argued, but Lydia merely scoffed away her concern.

"Have a little faith in me," she replied quietly. "Besides, I'm no sneak. I'll only give away your position. Now go, they'll be on us soon enough."

Scowling at the woman's hardheadedness, Tom begrudging turned around and scouted out the area. There was a particularly bushy tree not two yards off with a high, sturdy-looking branch that could easily be climbed on to and used as cover. Making her way over to it hastily, Tom jumped up and caught the lowest branch in her grip. She expertly pulled herself up and climbed into place. Nuzzling herself into the gap between the trunk and branch, she readied her bow and watched at the bushes where the unknown assailants would be coming through. Down on the ground, Lydia appeared to be swinging her new sword around in cocky anticipation. Tom shook her head. The woman was going to get herself killed.

Finally, three Nord men in sturdy armor adorned with blue trimmings emerged from the bush. Even from her spot, Tom could see the anger on their faces, and she gripped her bow firmly, ready to fire at a moment's notice, but Lydia did not appear threatened at all. Instead, she immediately lowered her sword and swore, "Oh for the love of Talos!"

The men appeared to be just as confused as Tom as the housecarl gruffly sheathed her sword and shouted up into the trees. "You can come down, my thane!" Her voice became bitter. "They're just Stormcloaks."

Tom felt the strong urge to kick herself. While a formidable force in their own right, Stormcloaks had no business with her and would probably welcome her with open arms if they knew the trouble she had caused the Legion in her past – not that she had any desire to join them. Putting away her bow, she quickly maneuvered her way down the tree and jumped to the ground. As she rose up, the Breton got a better look at the three soldiers standing only a few feet from Lydia, who had crossed her arms by this point and appeared to be waiting rather impatiently for her thane to explain herself to the men. Each of them were large and burly. The smallest of the three was roughly the size of Lydia. As Tom approached her housecarl, the Stormcloaks seemed surprised by her, a reaction Tom was getting used to at an alarming rate.

"What's your business here?" the man in the middle growled. He was a red-haired man with an impressive beard and wore a hat made of bearskin, marking him as some sort of barbarian officer. "You spies?"

"Of course not," Lydia replied. "This is the–"

"Cosette Beaumont, thane of the Pale," Tom quickly interrupted, trying to sound as important as possible. Lydia looked over her shoulder at the little thane and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as the Breton pushed past her. "We're on important business for the jarls so if you three fine gentleman will please excuse us, we'll be on our way. Come, Lydia."

Lydia obeyed, but just as Tom was about to slip her way through the men. The officer stepped forward grabbed her by the arm. "Not so fast," he said and looked over at the man on his right. "'Ey, Wave-Breaker, aren't you from Dawnstar?"

Wave-Breaker, who was by far the largest of the lot with his giant pot-belly and bulging arm muscles, crossed his giant arms and tilted his head back. He grinned, and Tom could see he was missing a couple teeth. "That I am, Torgor," the man said, "and I've never heard of no thane by that name. Oblivion take me, I don't think I've ever even heard of a Breton thane in the _proper_ cities of Skyrim."

"I'm new," she spat. "I came in from High Rock about a month ago to help the city with a very delicate problem that I'm sure the jarl wouldn't appreciate me discussing with the likes of _you_."

Tom knew the last bit would most likely only make the men angrier, but she had to stay in character no matter the cost and no proper Breton noble would ever let these savages talk to her in the way they were. Fortunately or perhaps unfortunately, Wind-Breaker just snorted, more amused by her antics than insulted.

"Yeah, if you're so chummy with him, then what's the jarl's name?"

"Well, I like to call him Peaches," she replied with a smug smirk before attempting to jerk her arm away from Torgor to no avail. "Now unhand me!"

Gripping her arm even more tightly, Torgor looked back at the two men. "I think maybe we should take the thane to Arrald, just until we get it her story straight, don't you think?"

Torgor nodded, and behind her, Tom heard Lydia unsheathe her sword again. The smallest man – if he could even be called that, he looked no older than seventeen – jumped back in visible surprise. Likewise, the other two suddenly turned their attention towards Lydia, though they were more threatened than fearful. Either way, the officer's grip loosened, and Tom took the opportunity to break free, quickly retreating behind Lydia, who stood with her sword at point, ready to skewer the first man who stepped forward.

"The thane isn't going anywhere," Lydia said firmly. "Now, the thane and I have some very important business that must be attended to. If you gentlemen try to stop us again, I will not hesitate to kill every last one of you, and if you do, by chance, happen to survive – well, given that Jarl Skald isn't exactly a man known for his patience, I'm sure he'll be more than pleased to pass along the information to High King Ulfric about how three Stormcloak soldiers threatened his thane."

Tom was honestly impressed by Lydia's ability to lie through her teeth and be not only convincing but genuinely threatening as well. The three men all stared at the housecarl as they mulled over whether this was worth pursuing any further, until the young man finally broke the silence.

"Maybe we should let them go," he said. "I mean, she did freely invoke the name of Talos when she saw us. Maybe she isn't an Imperial."

"Bah, that means nothing," Torgor replied. "Even those milk-drinking traitors in the Legion still know their god, even if they won't die for him."

Inspecting her fingernails in the prissiest manner she could muster, Tom spoke up, "Since I would hate to see this explode into a diplomatic incident, may I propose a compromise? If it will get us on our way any faster, then I suppose we _could_ see this Captain – Arrald, did you call him? Let him weigh in on the subject. Hmm?"

Wind-Breaker immediately burst out with a booming laugh at her words, and Lydia could scarcely hide her mortification. Furrowing her brow, Tom tilted her head as the big bear of a Nord wiped his eyes and said, "Ah, you really are from High Rock, aren't you?"

"What?" Tom asked.

Lydia buried her face in her free hand in embarrassment. "My thane, Stormcloaks don't call their leaders captains. Everybody knows that."

"I didn't."

Torgor grinned. "That won't be necessary, ma'am. If you are spies, I'd prefer not to have been the one who lead you directly to camp, but I doubt a spy would know so little about the people they were gathering information on."

"So we can go?" Tom asked, crossing her arms.

"Just don't let me catch you two around these parts again."

With that, the officer stepped aside for the women allowing them to pass. Once the two were finally out of earshot of the soldiers, Lydia succumbed to a small fit of giggles. As Tom stared up at her waiting for some sort of explanation, Lydia waved her hand and tried to regain her composure. "I'm sorry. I thought after all that work, your 'captain' thing was going to get us killed. I mean, I actually had them scared and ready to turn around and march back to their little camp and then you come in with _'Captain_ _Arrald_.' By the Nine."

Tom puckered her lips sourly at the ribbing, but she took no offense. "I didn't know, and it worked out, didn't it?"

"Only because you were so damn prissy about it," Lydia said with a chuckle.

"Well, at least I didn't call him a praefect. Gods know how that would've gone."

"Praefect, huh?" Lydia replied. Her mouth twisted into a teasing grin. "Don't know rank in the Stormcloaks, but you do know the Legion's. Maybe you are an Imperial spy."

The woman's accusation was made entirely in jest, but struck by a sudden curiosity, Tom pursued the topic in hopes to know a little more about the woman she was traveling with. "Would that bother you?"

"Not particularly," Lydia said. "Like a lot of old Nords, my father was a Legion man. They aren't _all_ bad people. They're just fighting for their ruler, same as the Stormcloaks."

"But you sympathize more with the Stormcloaks?"

"I know why they fight," Lydia replied, "and it's honorable goal, I guess, but it never really mattered who I preferred. Before you, I served Whiterun and only Whiterun, and now–" She paused and looked down at the Breton, before exhaling what sounded like a small chuckle. "Now, I go wherever you go, for better or worse. Even if it means having to threaten soldiers just to save your hide."

Tom grinned to herself. "About that, I've been meaning to ask where you learned to lie like that? I thought if anything you were going to be the one to give me away, but no, you immediately fell in line. So where'd a woman like you learn think so quickly?"

"Right, because all Nords are all brawn and no brain."

Now it was Tom's turn to put her foot in her mouth. "I didn't mean it like that. You're just – a housecarl. I expected you to be all noble and moral, you know?"

"Well I wasn't always a housecarl," Lydia replied, smirking. "I used to be a guard, and one of the things you learn as a guard is how to spot a weak link and badger them into telling you what they know or in this case, getting them out of your way. That usually works better if you aren't entirely honest. What I can't figure out is why you lied to them in the first place. With all due respect, my thane, if you'd just told them you were the Dragonborn, we could've avoided all that."

Tom paused. "I dedicated a great deal of my life to being invisible, you know, not being noticed by people. I'd hate to let that go to waste just because it turns out I can absorb dragon souls. The fewer people who can identify me as the Dragonborn the better. I'm sure years down the road, someone will claim they were the Dragonborn and they can have the title. I don't want it."

"So you're really not interested in the glory?" Lydia asked and Tom shook her head. "That's – surprisingly noble."

"It really isn't," Tom muttered, ending the conversation. It had occurred to her that if she did reveal herself as the Dragonborn, save the Nirn from dragons, all that hero business, then maybe she wouldn't have to live as an outlaw any more. Maybe the Empire would officially pardon her and she could go visit that farm outside Chorrol and make amends with the only person still living that she could call family. Maybe she could even call herself Lucille Adair again and live out the rest of her days in one of the beautiful manors in Anvil that she had admired so much as a child, but that wouldn't be fair to a lot of people and that guilt would probably haunt her for the rest of her life. It was better this way, and if she did happen to survive this mess, then maybe she would one day return to that farm and make amends, years down the road when no one would remember her name, but she would do it as the criminal she was.

The pair walked in silence for another hour, stopping only because Lydia rather teasingly mentioned that Tom had neglected to allow her time for breakfast and it was now well past noon. As they ate, or rather Lydia ate while Tom took a few bites of an apple and stared blankly out into the forest, Lydia had apparently taken to the idea that their little misadventure with the Stormcloaks meant they had become friends and tried once again to start up a conversation with the Breton.

"So was that actually your name?" she asked, still chewing on her food. Tom quirked her eyebrow and looked over her shoulder at the Nord, who swallowed and elaborated her question while gesturing. "Back there you told the soldiers your name was Cosette. Is it?"

"No," Tom replied and turned her gaze back towards the forest.

"I'm sorry," Lydia said. Tom could almost hear Lydia's eyes rolling as she spoke. "I didn't mean to offend you, my thane."

"You can stop calling me that," Tom said. "It sounds so _proper_."

"Then what would I call you instead, my thane?" Lydia asked. Tom could tell the housecarl had added that on just to be flippant, but it didn't particularly bother her. The woman had a point. She had never given a name to the people of Whiterun for a reason, but if she didn't give Lydia a name, then she might as well get used to the "my thane"s, as strange as it sounded in her ears. Before she could reply, Lydia chimed in with an alternative, "Perhaps your Eminence, my thane, or your Supreme Grace, or is that a step in the wrong direction?"

Tom couldn't help but grin. "It's Jeanne."

It was the name she had given Arngeir and a personal favorite alias of hers. There were at least a thousand Breton women with the name, and she might as well keep her story straight so long as she was doing this Dragonborn business. Lydia hummed and said, "Yeah, that sounds about right. So if you don't mind me asking, who were you before all this?"

"I was a farmwife," the Breton replied, quietly. "My husband and I had just moved here with the kids from High Rock. We had fallen on troubled times, and he had family in the area so we set ourselves up a little stead just outside of Falkreath."

"You're a mother?" Lydia asked skeptically.

"Yes, three times over," Tom answered. She looked down, feigning wistfulness. "There was Antony and Merrett and of course, Cecilia, my little darling. She was no more than two years old when I – I went into town one day and came home to find the place burned to the ground. Not one survived."

"I'm – I'm so sorry," Lydia stuttered. "I can't imagine the pain of – I'm just. Was it bandits?"

"No," Tom deadpanned. "Bears. Big, black bears with pointy teeth. They walked on two legs, they did, and breathed fire." She turned back to Lydia, who sat there completely dumbstruck, her mouth slightly agape and her brow furrowed questioningly, much to Tom's amusement. "Lydia, I'm _lying_."

"Yeah I got that," Lydia spat. " So none of that was true? The children, the husband, the farm? Just one big joke? With all due respect, my thane, you're a horrible person."

Tom chuckled. "I'm sorry. I really couldn't help it. If it's any consolation, it wasn't completely untrue. I was married once, but no children. No, these hips weren't really made for birthing even one babe. Three would have certainly killed me."

Still a little put off, Lydia pursed her lips and looked down at her lunch. "So what happened with your husband?"

"I'm afraid it's a lot less dramatic than being eaten by fire-breathing bears," Tom replied with a small smile. "No, what happened with us is all too common. We lived in Anvil. It's a little city by the sea in Cyrodiil. He was a sailor. I worked as a barmaid at an inn by the docks. Match made by the Divines as it were. Well, after four years of nothing but dedication on my part – oh and what dedication it was. Do you have any idea what it's like being married to a sailor? They're gone most of the year and when they are there – ugh, dealing with the smell alone should have warranted being given a medal from the Emperor himself."

Tom feigned disgust for the sake of the story, but she remembered his scent with great fondness. The stench of fish and sweat was always gone after he bathed and she _always_ made him bathe as soon as he got back, but the fresh scent of sea salt always remained on his person and stained the sheets, lingering on the bed long after he had shipped out on his latest trip. Tom shook her head and continued, "Anyway, one day I get a letter from him. _'My dear Jeanne, I regret to inform you that I have fallen in love with someone else. We are very happy together. You can keep the house. Please never try to find me.'_ Hah, as if I was going to let him get away that easily."

"So what did you do?" Lydia asked, grinning.

"I tracked him down, of course. Found out he's found himself some little trollop in Solitude. Well, I head up to Skyrim first chance I get. Of course, as you can see, that didn't work out as planned. I happen to get up here just as dragons are flying about and turns out I'm the only one who can stop them. Still haven't forgotten about my dear husband though. We ever come across him, and oh, I'll get my revenge, I will. Think I'll have you hold him down, while I bring down the sword on that neck of his." Tom imitated a chopping motion as Lydia made an uncomfortable face.

"You're lying again, aren't you?" the Nord asked with a clear uncertainty in her tone.

"You're catching on," Tom replied. She sighed and stood up. "Look, Lydia, I like you so I'll let you in on a little secret. If you ask me about my past, I'm going to make up a story. It's as simple as that."

"You know," the housecarl replied, wryly, "you could've just said that you didn't want to talk about it. "

"That's not how it works," Tom replied with a broken grin. She wrung her hands and stared out into the forest. "I make things up. It's what I do. Along with fighting dragons, apparently."

Her mouth twitching, the Breton picked up her pack and started out on the road before Lydia could reply. One day, Tom would learn how to talk to people without coming across as the most sullen person alive, but for now, the best way she knew how to end a conversation was make it as evident as possible that she didn't want to talk about it. A ways behind her, Lydia quickly packed up her things and followed after her thane, grumbling as she did. The two women walked in complete silence for another couple hours until they came upon a small clearing in the marsh. In the middle of the clearing there was a great stone circle, with steps that spiraled down into a fairly deep hole. Tom stopped and stared down the unfamiliar markings along the top of the stone. The deep scratches appeared as if might have been a language, but even if it was, there was no way Tom would know what it said. Exhaling sharply through her nose, the Breton stood up straight and faced her companion.

"You suppose this is it?" Tom asked. The Nord woman knelt down and examined the markings carefully.

"It says this is Ustengrav," Lydia replied as she got back on her feet. "So yes, I do suppose this is it, sir."

Tom took a deep breath and allowing a moment to compose herself. There were bound to be skeletons and draugr waiting for her inside, and Divines knew what other sorts of nasty creatures lurked down there, but Tom tried to push that from her mind. She had fought this all before, but this time it felt different. As Lydia waited behind her for some sort of command, Tom knew there was no turning back now, no running back to the Guild, no heading west to High Rock and leaving this all behind. All she had was what lay before her, a final test before being sent off out into the world as the true Dragonborn.

"All right, let's head out," she said. Lydia nodded sharply and followed Tom as the Breton slowly descended down the spiraling steps.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Notes:<em> Good news guys! This chapter's technically been chopped into two parts. The first couple POVs from the next one were supposed to be in this one, but I didn't like the pacing/how it fit together so I made it into two different ones, a Tom chapter and a Guild chapter, meaning chapter ten will be running concurrent with this. (All chapters that follow chapter ten until Tom rejoins the Guild will alternate between being Tom heavy and Guild heavy, but you will see the Guild/Tom.) The good news is that means the next chapter will probably be up soon! Wooo! (Honestly this one would have been up much, much sooner if it hadn't been for finals and if I hadn't been out of town for the majority of December and the first week of January.) Also: wow, it's been a year since I started writing this and this story is officially over 100k words. Thanks for continuing to follow me even though I'm lazy and terrible. You guys are the best. So great. Wow.


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